BOAT ON THE HUDSON

How I wish you'd traveled by boat up the salt-mixed Hudson

to old Erie Canal, caressed by air curling your hair into knots

we could've unraveled together, slowly, without words,

east-west, north-south, so that stupid journalist would never

have called me your "pal" and because that's the way to go,

with dignity the way ancient Viking ships carried furs,

slaves and amber. We, too, vessels of warmth, the enslaved,

golden beauty. Going slowly under clouds until coast

gives way to dark mountains, rising shadows

pierced by night fires, pearls scattered among ashes.

Traveling a day or two, a night, or two nights and a day.

Taking your time. Smoke from the boat's chimney lingers

in your hair, mingles slowly, like a man and woman in love.

Not in a hurry. It's the way to return, early,

Before dawn, cold and eager, still wrapped in midnight's

velvet when poets stay, look at stars, trace a word

or two in dew on the railing or in notebooks. Your book

is closed. How I wish you had traveled by boat.

PUBLISHED IN THE BUFFALO NEWS, FEBRUARY 14, 2010