Layover

Past the luggage carousel
the latest models from Detroit
revolve, displayed like wedding cakes,
temptation to change
horses in midstream.

Once I was here, being returned
to Boston like a book
read, reread, enough to loosen the spine
& slightly overdue.

Under the monitors we shared a drink
& sat like parting lovers; upset,
you left your new sunglasses at the table.

I can’t find the table, Can’t even
find the bar, though that boutique—
TENNIS LAD—
surely misspelled, incomplete—

must certainly be new. The cars are new.
The mannequin missing her service arm
is new; there must be romance
in Pittsburgh to sell tennis panties
at an airport—that’s new.

Against my will
whatever isn’t new
shrinks like a star,
collapses like the has-been

who blows his last gig & goes under.
How hard it gets for the girl
to care for him; on Thursday she packs & leaves.

I am leaving Pittsburgh, though not on a Thursday
& as I said, it isn’t really Pittsburgh.
I’ve nothing better to do
than read; there’s no pleasure

in memory. An utter stranger,
with no attraction or connection to the posters
of steel mills
or the blazing confluence of Three Rivers Stadium

I need to be lifted
to a world with a present
& a past. Checking the lucky dream books

& my horoscope:
Don’t travel on Thursday—
I find Emma. Soon I will be a passenger
& disappear
into a sky more black than blue.