Poem: Shards

So thirty-five years from now
You’ll meet me at the airport
We’ll go to lunch in your city
And I’ll pick up the check to show you how well I’ve done.

This is after we stripped the woodwork
This is after the acid and the West Side Highway
This is after the Bicentennial parade

We dance in Denver on St. Patrick’s Day.
Your daughter will buy me a beer
My daughter will cry on the phone.

I want you to, don’t want you to kiss me.
I’m not as single as you are, and the years have turned to miles.