Reunion
J. Quinn Brisben
My friend the clock repairer
Has revived an old brownstone,
Half a house wide, two houses high,
With a working cast-iron coal stove,
Where our pasts make harmonies
In whole tones of a Brooklyn hour.
Once we heard all hours chime
And sawed at the same bars.
We have been eccentric
To many circles together.
Now our orbits intersect
So seldom that we celebrate
Each time we make it happen.
The clocks stutter, ticking
Layers of overlapping minutes,
Collaged waves engulfing us.
And other clocks in our minds
Are half a continent away,
Some four decades back, but
Not gone, with thunder steps
Of giants and hurts to grow on.
Now badger-bearded, wrinkling,
Older than the giants were
And certainly no wiser, we laugh.
A crank winds up the Edison,
And, in weary vertical grooves,
A soprano gone before our coming
Tells how she has lived
For art and love
Which, if we define these things
Ourselves, ought to be enough.
