It would be near the beginning of my autobiography,
right after chores before dinner
and wanting to be ducktail-cool with a waterfall-curl
and moan like Paul Anka when
I wasn’t packing high sierra mules—
before I left for school, before Viet Nam.
Smog check and service, I bring your book
and read your road trip north
as if I were with you, from the Ford garage—
to relive that ever-readiness to try anything
to get high enough to see that plane stretch
into forever, where innocence becomes invincible.
It really did begin in those days of moral turmoil
and rotten politics, our lust for love we could not find
comfort in without purpose or partnership. Sails
on the horizon, we have let our separate ships
lean with the wind to circumnavigate the seas—
all just to find ourselves again.