Not the shaded table by the pool
where I point out a hummingbird eating nectar
and my son asks, “You mean like I eat pizza?”
Not the tent—stuffed in a corner
of the garage—I slept in many summers ago
while biking across the country, once in a horse
pasture in Virginia, another time in the
parking lot of a Pentecostal Church deep
in Appalachia, cement still fiery-hot at midnight.
Not the Swiss Alps where we honeymooned,
dipping chocolate in our espressos as the dew
lifted and snow-capped peaks blinded us.
Not the bow of a ship in Glacier Bay, back when
it still had glaciers, when I could watch an iceberg crumble
and feel not fear, but awe.
Not the Estación de tren de Granada,
where Eva and I spent hours passing notes
the way star-crossed lovers destined to part ways
pass notes: ostentatiously, confusing depth of feeling
Not the plazas of Montmartre, where everything is beautiful—
the Parisian sunset, the sweaty tourists taking photos
of the Moulin Rouge, the unkempt painters
who speak hopefully of the greats, how their genius
was but posthumously acknowledged.
No, the ideal spot for writing poetry is here, Terminal 5
at LAX, surprisingly uncrowded for Labor Day, parents
shushing hungry toddlers, a tattooed woman in sandals
running to catch her flight, and me, hungry too,
thinking if it all ended here, my God, what a life it’s been.
Monday, September 4, 2023