Lost In America

There is a river nearby A black green mystery of water That standing at one end One can hardly see the dim Outline of trees on the other side. The river is deep And in the stillness Of early morning A mist comes Off it So thick and impervious That you literally can't See your hand In front of your face. We frequented the place My father and I On Sunday mornings After the sun burned the mist away I, as usual, hurrying up To keep up with him. Years later when I left home My father shook my hand A formality I was Unaccustomed to And one that left me puzzled. Awkwardly, we said goodbye Then he walked away His broad back Slowly fading Into the caverns of Grand Central Until he disappeared In the noise and smoke of The station. When the train whistle blew My heart jumped I felt a thrill Of adventure My life had a purpose Finally, I was on my own! Events tell a story I made mistakes Stumbling from impossible dreams To vague ideas And found that loneliness Was all intimidating Painfully, I realized All I had to offer life Was my own confusion. Not every life has a storybook ending And mine was no different I retuned home After one year. Restless one night I stood on the river's edge Listening to a solitary boat crossing the river Plying its cargo up and down the coast In the darkness a buoy gave up its warning A deep clanging sound in the mist Turning to see where the sound came from I stood motionless And listened There was nothing but silence And the soft lapping of waves on the shore As it was since the beginning of time. In the quiet I remembered the early morning walks with my father A familiar Sunday morning ritual I now missed. Overhead a moon shone Casting a pale light on everyone and everything And I stood still Knowing that I had lost my way Knowing that the river was calling from the night Knowing that I was a solitary figure Lost in America.