Waiting

There’s a place in Maine
where an old man summers.
He’s connected to most of what matters
but I want to communicate with him.

I was moving toward that A-frame house
amid tall pine
where mosquitos eat you
on a trail to the heavy-breathing shore
when I first looked up
and saw your almond eyes.

The sharp rocks of the shore
under your soft and pretty feet
cut me to the heart,
but you met the world
with an incipient giggle.

A laugh!

The way you turned your head,
closed your eyes,
and pursed your lips
as quickly as you shuttered with amusement—
the center of your upper lip
so tender
as to draw your lower lip
upon it lovingly.
Your laugh was the end of my journey.
I was ready to knock
on the old man’s door
with your small hand in mine.

But as quickly as you appeared,
you were gone.

I walked back up the trail,
passing the A-frame house.
I didn’t bother
dropping in on the old man
who needed me.
I abandoned all of it,
because you weren’t there
to introduce
to the old man

I realize now that I was wrong.
I must return to that shore
to delight in the salty, airy, fishy smell of being.
And then go and talk to the old man.

I will stay in the old man’s house.
I will talk to him over lunch
and dinner.
He goes to bed early,
so, by night,
I’ll await your arrival.
Each day will be the same.
You may never return.
I may become the old man,
grow senile,
and forget you.
But this journey,
it turns out,
has no end.
And it is to no end
that I’ll desire that laugh.