I
thought
Tony
Soprano
and speakeasy booze,
guys who wake up and find their guns.
Bruce Springsteen singing Greetings from Asbury Park at
the end of the Holland Tunnel.
Atlantic breakers.
Surfboard dudes
tattooed.
Chewed
gum.

I
saw
the creek's
rustic bridge,
a house in the woods,
fields of sweet corn and alfalfa,
blueberry cages animated by honey bees,
a white-tailed deer with staring eyes.
Speaking was easy
on a porch
chilled out
with
wine.

I
hold
records
of that time.
Coffee and scrapple,
fireflies at midnight,
hummingbirds immune to the heat.
The tumble-down wood-shed that tumbled down when I left,
hot summer rain on cotton shirts,
crossing a river
to the town
christened
New
Hope.