Long Road To Canaan

Walking together through Greenwich Village,
late one night, Charlie and I, we met people he knew.
He lived up on West 74th. What were the odds of
bumping into friends down here, in the small hours?

After 26 years in NYC he went home to California
to care for his aging mother. He’s an only child.
It was his watch that got turned back, his senses
that had to reset: ocean sunsets rather than dawns.

The neighbors across the street are friendly,
maybe too friendly, he thinks out loud.
They mean nothing to him, are not the sort
he’d want to encounter on the street, ever.

But they haunt his porch with insinuating smiles,
bringing their daughter (the grandchild his mother
never had) for visits. Christmas dinner seems to
last for days. He describes it (awful!) on the phone.

Charlie keeps earlier hours these days, and
I know (without having to see eyes or hear sighs)
that he wishes he didn’t have to. Yes, it’s a long road
to Canaan on Bleecker Street. Elsewhere too.