Boom! at four AM,
truck tires slam over the ribs of the ramp
to the interstate,
crashing, crashing in their endless push
to get somewhere.
Bars on the windows of my hotel room,
as if some thief, agile as a spider,
would climb up the walls
to the third floor balcony.
Even in the dark of night,
all is movement, life at full tilt
in Rye, New York.
And yet, this night,
as I creep out in the late-September cold,
the Moon, white as a billiard ball,
shines bright, disappearing through a curtain of clouds.
"My Moon is here!" cries the four-year-old.
And She is!
As if this were some mountain hollow,
the stars peep through, 'way above the glare of lights.
"You're home," says the Moon,
pulling at me still, in Rye, New York.
Rye, New York
September 30, 2012