cornwall-on-hudson

I took the last shot and got the hell out of there
some dive in the middle of the wooded road,
two girls, they saved me from the Irish bachelors
who knew these lands
better from fire
rapid up rungs

proper driving etiquette
require that one promptly
switches off their fog lights
when approaching
another vehicle,
                             
                               we blinked through
                               the still black
                               of thruway 87
                               to, finally, the immense waters
                               of the east off my cuff

                               sharp fog-wind in my throat
                               at the lip of the Shore
                               to Pollepel Island
                               where legendary hounds
                               guard the ruined
                                         castle

to the swimmers in the bay,
I squint toward the highlands and return
my cautionary pace through the geese-shit
the field and from it, one long strip of gravel that summed up
to a ghostly gazebo laden w/ beer cans and
other discards

of the pink locals
of the old storm kings,
of the old Ketchams

Rolling towards Black Rock
which has since flooded a great deal,
the old men catch
fish & flies
have meetings

I, launching a ball high into the air
for a child to chase after, his mother,
who adored me, laughs through her cigarette and claps

Cornwall & Grandview Ave becomes a finger
that points toward the Hudson, and over
the docked boats, the blue-brown waters
toward Breakneck Rd      

Pat, standing always close to me,
once again, insisted that I take the trouble
to visit West Point for a tour