Up the Hollow

Midnight, on the way home

walking uphill from the

bar where the music

cut to the viscera

far beyond the day's

ennui and minutiae

of contracts and salaries

grades and plan-book

ledger lines--

who's here, who's not

what they earn--

and life opens up

along Sheridan Hollow

this desolate gash of canyon

in the heart of Albany--

and I am a dog

marking his territory

loving that alone-ness

of big spaces for crowds

now empty and quiet

with the hum of lighted

kiosks and halos over streets

angels or not it doesn't matter

as linden leaves dance in

the warm October air

and it's a foreign country

as soon as routine is broken

and it's a Thursday night

several pints deep now

and my feet know the way

as I move like a fugitive

picking up and leaving behind

little bits here and there

down Dove Street across Washington

a quick skip as the relay clicks and

lights change for midnight traffic

of cabs—blond waves crash

into the front seat and a

mummy-figure sweeps past

in a bright bus whoosh

and I find my way home--

not lonely just alone.