Not All Who Wander Are Lost

Used book stores when the shelves are in complete disarray, 
       battered covers leer like a puppy at an animal shelter;
       Yes, Sad Eyes, of course I’ll take you home.
Pages of photo albums whose faces smile back, 
       rich reminiscences pay homage to a storied past.
Weeding gardens, elbow deep in sweat and soil, 
       hoping I don’t disturb the bulbs I forgot I planted last fall.
A phone call from Leslie on Mayflower Road in Baltimore, 21212;
       or Jeremy of Alexandria because geography has never stopped us;
       or Colleen just off Route 50, a mile from Broadway, downtown Saratoga;
       or Mom, just around the corner no matter which map we use.
Harry Potter marathons on a Saturday afternoons
       regular T.V. with commercials. 
A Geneseo sunset over the valley
        the gazebo, an Aunt Cookie’s sub dripping mayo from the toasted bun,
        late summer 
        after a hike in Stony Brook.

Ocean tides. 

Blue flames of a bonfire licking dried wood 
syncopated snap, pap, pap,
crack, shuffle, resettle, 
and dusty embers take flight.
Weight of a heavy-bottomed tumbler rolling in my wrist;
bourbon licks the inside of the glass.

Behind the lens of my camera:
softest light, brightest smile, gentlest wind. 

Light scratches in vinyl grooves,
the needle wanders over velvet-voiced Etta James: 

At Last