“Do you, do you like dreaming of things
                      so impossible?” 

                                                      –       Chris Carrabba  

I’ve taken to listening, again,
to the music that served
backdrop to another
time, decades ago,
and the beat
of a younger man’s

the former
a soundtrack
recalling western coasts,
wild waves crashing
against dark rocks,
HWY One flying
beneath different tires—

that is to say, not out loud, but
within, a thrum so recognizable,
so impossible, so distant
from who I believed
I’d become. 

Here, now.  On this deck.  Cicadas,
or some other
night-singing ensemble
play the lead, the hush
of distant cars counterpoint
to lower temperatures, and
I listen.  I listen,

trying to relearn
the steps of the forgotten

One sleep.  One last sleep
before we step to the floor,
Dashboard Confessional strumming

a lone guitar, reminding
to breathe.