Time Slip

There’s a poem in this night
if I could find it between the full moon
and the dead electricity
in the prevailing quiet
dimmed only by pickup trucks
so many pickup trucks
where do they go? Where do they come from?
Why don’t I have one? 

Huck and I sit on a bench staring at the harbor.
One of the last fleet of working skipjacks.
Huck has another vantage point; visions he has, he doesn’t share.
I do as well but he doesn’t begrudge.
The full moon sways between clouds. Silver.
Like an echo of some forgotten song
“Kiss me once, kiss me twice, it’s been a long, long time.”

Earlier I felt sick, a ferry swished me to Oxford.
Slim girls in animal print with lean faces, chins slanted just so
ignored me, my dogs. They looked hungry
for life, for adventures I’d never know. And didn’t miss.
All the world waited for them, their winged eyeliner,
their careful tans, their Instagram flush,
their mirror-practiced pouts, All the world.

And, in what would seem overnight, 
they will be me.