You are going to that Seattle
I only know in movies,
where I hear it rains every day
that you cry because you are
in love or not in love.

I knew you in school halls
and diner booths while the pitiful
Hudson swelled and drained
like the cups of coffee you had
freshened half a dozen times a night.

I heard you sing across its whiskey
shores and wait for echoes, but
the hair you find on your pillow
can be strung out along the Tappan Zee
a hundred times before it breaks you.

You are going to flood Seattle, John-
writing Pacific poems to forget
every goddamned New York autumn
that sent its slimy leaves to spin
the wheels of whatever car it is you drive.

07/13/2004

Author's Note: (For John Hickey, my favorite poet heading west). needs work.

Posted on 07/13/2004
Copyright © 2025 Christina Gleason