The Park Street Church’s steeple stares
at me through a library window. Its point
pierces the sky so the day can droop down
through a tiny tear and leak all over
my books. Between me and the needle
is a cemetery. So many cemeteries
out here. So many thin tombstones,
winged skulls winking back and forth
until the afternoon dies. It’s June and, Kevin,
you are getting married soon. I’m coming
alone, sharing a hotel room with Chris,
wishing Idaho was forever. I’ll rewrite
this note after breakfast the day before,
surrounded by the snug choke of our friends,
stories that don’t end, and outside a sun
that smells too sweet blushing into mountains.
The sky all kinds of never and your face
redder than it’s ever been. Please, don’t
throw this note away. I’m sorry the check
I’m writing is so small. I’m spinning
into a pleasant drunk already, several
months early. Clunky Boston barely exists
as I walk home. Light pollution red
sky breathing me in. Let’s stay here,
where you’re always about to get married
and the summer pretends it doesn’t know how to end.
By Bob Sykora
Gulf Stream Magazine 