Drifting

 

I listened to Leonard Cohen and Buffy St. Marie.

They spoke to me in unity.

 

Philadelphia. 1971.

 

I was adrift like

the Alaska Ferry

I now see in

what would be

blue sea and sky

now gray as if

hope is paralyzed.

Smoke from fires

far away, has drifted here.

 

I was soon to drift away.

 

Dave said, “Why haven’t you

shared these albums with us?”

As if I was hiding them.

As if I knew more than a calling.

 

As if I knew where I would go.

 

All that I own is such naivety

that I look for answers in songs

and boats and eagles.

 

All I could do was shrug my

shoulders to Dave because

it would be presumptuous

to think I am more than a

spec that listens to the mysterious

yearnings that sometimes

pull on me.