On sharing

A couple of weeks ago a musician friend and I were talking about the wonders of blogging, questions of frequency, where lines ought to be drawn, et cetera, and he asked me whether I intended to post any of my poems here. I might. Occasionally. This one has been rejected by a couple of journals, but I'm bullheaded enough to like it anyway. It may find its way into print someday, but for now I'll give it a home here.

Near Muniac, New Brunswick

Outside town, still clasped
in the stale, steady pulse
of a full afternoon, we moved
down the road away
from the festival grounds,
drinks still in hand, the damp/
parched taste of new-mown grass
in the nose, ambling wide between
the dip of the ditch and the yellow line,
hoping for a glimpse of the St. John.

It was in one of those minutes,
blinking schools of fireflies on either side,
a couple of the guys lagging back for a pee,
Nina weaving in her path, eyes on the sky,
trying to put Orion and the Dipper together,
someone else murmuring about
the Big and the Little,
when I scissored again
into the trough of nostalgia
that rests like warm fog along
country roads on summer midnights,

when people lost to themselves
some years, find each other again,
in the dark and stumbling, but for
a little while, on a night, down a road,
down a night, on a road, like this.