As sure as men miss urinals around the world,

I stand at the gate of all I can’t take with me.

Why mourn the things that no longer bring pleasure?

I prefer the sight of the first apple to fall in the alley,

A solitary moose grazing in cool aspen shadows,

The tender photographs of Stephen Miles––

Those of his mother before she died have Kerouac’s heart.

I cross the green rivers of myself on fallen logs & holes of rain.

Blue & yellow moths sweep away my tracks.

Who is it that wishes all these old things were new?

Stay when going, your life’s like a flower planted on stone.

Most people think the leaving only gets harder.

On the corner they wonder what will be.

I’ve always had the feeling of you touching me right now.

Everything gets better somewhere up the way.


22 August 2002


Spoken word version from Trashtalking Country.

Copyright © 2005 by Jim Cohn.