AT BERGMAN'S "MONICA"
(2003)

Watching "Monica"
a film about young love
here alone in an art theater
everything seems galactic
from a cathartic acting
in black and white
with Swedish subtitles
feeling indifferent about life
when the speakers are not clear
at a midnight showing,
a woman in front of me
who had heard me play sax
at the local gig,
the watering hole,
asks me out for a drink
my eyelids glance out
and I look a sight
with my sunglasses
at the empty seats,
we drive by the ocean
the air is biting us
wondering where my soul
is wandering sporadically
if this is what other poets
endure from loss
and family rejection
on this boardwalk at a time
of so many spells of dread
and hours of deadening insomnia
wishing to be a year younger,
soon we are afloat
on my orange kayak
at the shore
not questioning the moon
or the crazy cat
who follows our beach trail
hoping to restart
my motorcycle or my life
or at least to
think of something to say
when she tells me
her name is Monica.