Night Market

When I look over my shoulder

to change lanes on

the Leo Frigo bridge

high above the bay, I see her 

reaching over to smooth his long hair –

my son’s girlfriend –

and it’s as though he’s been

cracked open and I’ve seen

his heart beating

for the first time.

It’s crowded, so 

we park far

from the market grounds

this muggy August night

and we take our time on the

uneven sidewalks, overgrown by

late summer weeds.

Neighborhood kids on Big Wheels or bikes

circle elderly men on canes,

dodge parents carrying chairs and coolers

in the slowly fading light.

They walk behind me, holding hands –

her hands are cold, she says,

and holds them up to his heart.

The waffled orange plastic fence

runs between Titletown Brewery

and the Fox river that flows north,

parallel to the railroad tracks where

uneven piles of fresh gravel and asphalt wait patiently

for the future coming through –

we pick our way past the recycle bin

and a family struggling with a wagon.

I give my charges $10 and set them free.

On the periphery,

the hot air balloons groggily lift their outsize heads

as though waking from a late-afternoon nap

they don’t recall taking.

Their narrow necks fill with heartburn and fire and

soon a sentinel of them line the riverfront,

alternating light and dark against the purple sky.

Though it is late, I feel reckless –

I buy cold brew coffee

from a couple in a pull-behind trailer,

white trimmed in teal. Benjamin Brewer.

I pay $1 to pet a white puppy

from Lucky 7 Dog rescue.

I take a card.

I run into my cousin who’s just gotten a text from my aunt:

“We’re by the pole dancers.” Sure enough,

they are.

Her brother is wearing a hat

like one that I imagine Fitzgerald wore

to write about Daisy –

he punches out staccato poems on the spot

on an old typewriter

for young women in pairs,

for families with kids,

all standing in line and waiting for

enlightenment.

His chalkboard signs says:

Poems. Any topic.  While you wait. Pay whatever.

I wave at him and smile

but he is hunched over his work, and

I keep walking.

The hot air balloons

that have been taking Midwestern turns

lighting up, one after another,

slowly topple sideways,

darken,

deflate.

Silhouette people

wait to fold them,

tuck them onto trailers,

and drive them away in darkness.

I walk under the lights

strung over the picnic tables

to listen to the band all the way from Portland-

a marching band

drenched in New Orleans voodoo and

blended with Village People who do Cross Fit,

who make their own t-shirts,

who maybe practice polyamory.

They are jubilant,

they have trumpets, drums, a slide trombone,

hula hoops.

I buy a t-shirt I don’t need.

My son and his girlfriend

reappear,

and the music

fades

and then grows again

as we walk backward through the vendors to the the exit

(“Everlasting Romance”! Henna! Goat Milk Soap!)

then back up the street.

Along the old Larsen cannery

under the streetlights,

weeds grow wild and tall

between the sidewalk and wall,

and I say they are impressive,

ambitious,

and she says she’s never heard weeds

described that way, and so I say

they are profligate,

desperate,

ambidextrous,

hopeful,

senescent,

weedy.

You should write a poem about that,

my son says. But

I am not thinking

of adjectives for weeds,

I am picking my way

through the darkness and

watching the way that

people move about in their houses

lit by TVs and kitchen sink lights and soft table lamps –

I am thinking that

this night

is a window lit

for a brief moment,

and that years and years from now

I will walk past it in the darkness

and see

what was

inside.

22 Years Later

I.

On the way up to the lake house,

the back of the vehicle jammed

with things of this earth:

snacks, casseroles, a snowboard,

three pairs of snow pants, a snow shovel for the ice rink,

skates, sleeping bags, water,

wine –

and after passing barn upon barn,

acre upon acre

of crumbling stone and faded red paint

in the deepening twilight,

Suamico to Pulaski to Gillet to Suring

we pass one of the new kind of barns

that look like a huge tent, a cylinder on its side,

shaved off at the bottom so it doesn’t

roll away across the fields, bouncing

across the Midwest,

filled with nothing but light, as though if

pierced by telephone poles or church steeples

the light from the inside would wind

into the black frigid night like smoke,

bright swirling ropes

to tether the stars.

II.

I don’t pretend to understand that light

is a particle and a wave, a thing and an action

but the I know that barn is a belly,

pregnant with light

in the winter blackness –

though I carry this body forward, onward,

nearing fifty years on the planet but now

there will be no more copies of me, just those

already out in the world,

and in this vehicle hurtling across the frozen ground,

and those in the ground;

I once heard that some languages have no way

to express what could have been – it is or it is not,

it happened or it did not,

but even without words I know those mothers

with children lost think about

their may-have-been faces and their

could-have-been dreams,

and what it would be like to embrace them some day

when they would come home for Thanksgiving,

stamping their feet on the rug

to shake off the snow, someone shy

waiting behind,

and I know they also wonder

what would become of those

that would not have been.

III.

On the drive home with leftovers, unfolded clothes,

and wet boots thrown carelessly into the back –

without wine but with added memories and bruises,

snow comes down in slanting sheets:

Townsend, Lakewood, Crivitz,

so that there is no road ahead at all,

only the headlights catching a

conical cross-section of light

in the starless night,

particle or wave, thing or action,

its job is the same –

my middle almost-driving son

sits buckled next to me while I feign complete calm

as oncoming snowplows obliterate the windshield,

and the edge of the road pulls at my tires;

he selects music

and hands me the coffee from

the gas station, a beacon of swirling white light

along the highway far behind us already –

this son who may not even have been at all,

had Jacob lived, he is my version of Seth

after Abel was killed by Cain, though

Jacob never cried out

at all.

Can a person be

replaced? It’s ridiculous to even say,

but as far as I can tell,

there is no diminution of light

unlike the red paint fading and cracking and peeling

on the barns I cannot see –

whether particle or wave it

persists – and though I was pierced once,

the light, escaping,

doubled,

then tripled,

and I just didn’t see,

couldn’t see,

cannot yet see

where some of it

waits

for me.

Linneman’s

At Linneman’s

RiverWest

with McKenzie,

my firstborn,

who is somehow of age,

beautiful, and strong,

despite it all –

we’re just one drink in,

waiting for her boyfriend Zach to play,

when I hit the ladies’ room —

“I’m comin’ out!” the lady in the half-open stall shouts

and so I pee behind the imperfectly locked door of the other stall

while I listen to her humming and talking to herself

and then walk out, she is still talking

to everyone, to no one,

dreadlocks pointing everywhere and nowhere

as her purse, full of mail, or newspapers, or bills, or maybe some

sort of manifesto, not haphazard but

like a file cabinet crossed with an accordion,

orderly perches in the one sink like a satisfied cat

only she is not

washing her hands, and so then I am not, either

but stand there for a moment to see if she will

pick up her purse or whether a Gryffin or mail-carrier

or mouse will crawl out of it, but as it is she just stands there,

letting her conversation flow around us like water

and eventually like an island I think who am I kidding

anyway, I don’t always wash my hands,

and walk out into the darkened bar

where glasses clink and the last performer wraps up a song

about his brother who’d do anything for anyone except that he’s just

died, and the soft glow of phones light up just a few

faces, and the audience poet man finishes his sketch,

and I don’t see her come out of the bathroom

and I don’t think of her again at all

after Zach plays.