Once with a view
of the Empire State: drinking in
that glimmering spire and span.
Once by the campus lake,
back flat on a bench, prone to faint
pageants of the Milky Way sky.
Once on a loveseat, our host outside
attending the dyspeptic terrier:
all parties earnestly occupied.
Once in Central Park, bowtied and tuxed,
while some old letch settled back
in his bushes to watch.
Once in a handyman’s truck,
backseat, beside his crumpled-up tarp,
his trusty toolbox pitted with rust.
Bliss, O choirboy, open your lips
as elsewhere, elsewhere
this planet erupts, rocked by all its reckonings
with present, with future;
and sing your rapture
to every toolbox and terrier
now elated again, in their one small
cathedral of time, under glow
of stained glass aperture.