How To Find Youe Way Home
How to Find Your Way Home
Wear your tweed coat and checked hat.
The bus stops at the edge of the bridge.
It is a drawbridge and the ships are passing.
An old peddler pushes his cart along the
edge and sings his fruits. There are stars
in the water. Newsboys will shout their
headlines. “Red skies bleed to yellow.”
Ignore them and count your change because it
is a green day and the colors always change
at dusk. This is the way the street opens, but
the cobblestones defy interpretations. Treasonous
taxis sit back under street lamps, doors slightly
ajar. The young women are dancing with
reflections, their heads ringed with beads. The
men are no longer interested in dreams. The
restaurants will be almost empty. No one orders
in English. Pinpricks of light will appear in the
north sky. Hobos will stand with their hats in
their hands, waiting for Venus to appear in the sky.
You will know you are there when the last ship passes.
Do not look back. The bridge is a clock.
Mark Conte Copyright, Yankee magazine, 1982
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