The river café is closing now, drink up
Before this café table disappears
into four a.m. silence
of Sunday morning,
let me run my fingers
over its scars
like a duck ripples over a river at night
before we push back our chairs
to cross the bridge
into daylight, let me not think
about reeds whispering together
after someone chucks a stone into their midst
how can we know for sure no one
is stranded tonight?
no one calls
rescue me, lighthouse,
I’m here, waiting on a pile of rocks.
How briefly you were here, how long you have been gone
He was always out dancing, said his mother, my grandmother,
of her oldest boy Charles, who loved jazz,
loved to dance, loved to flirt,
work on his model-T,
but hated school
and left at sixteen
Charles, who will receive
a new stone from me
with room enough to carve
He Was Always Out Dancing
after his name and dates
of his short life,
1906-1922.
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