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White in the moon my younger self appears

For A.E.

M.C. Rydel

It’s dangerous for old men like me to walk
And circumnavigate a sub-division alone.
Families are sheltered inside.
Their dogs lie still at their feet.
The fog gently lifts. April trees bud.
White in the moon my younger self appears.

Twenty-five and fearless, he’s writing a poem
With too many allusions, searching for the divine
Like someone new to the Kabbalah.
The scent of fireplaces, the wind in the trees,
Gutters rattle, no airplanes in the sky, we hike.
Both men, apparitions to the other, now body and blood.

He asks - What did I do before I became you?
Home to dorm to studio to bungalow.
Confession, wedding, baptism, holy orders.
The brown hair grey – the brown beard greyer,
We’re doppelgangers on the shores of Lake Zurich
Without a soul outside, without a thought within.

What can I do to never become you?
Keep splitting infinitives. Separate yourself
From the rest of the procession. Young envy. Old lust.
Ditch the deadly others. Let the wind swirl the dust.
Taken up into a cloud, he ascends into the past.
Leaving me here, he must have listened to what I said.

My house is dark and empty. In the driveway, no cars.
The garage door code no longer works.
I can charge thousands on my credit cards,
But it’s like looking for an open hotel in a plague.
I end up taking a train, the California Zephyr, 51 hours.
500 dollars for the sleeper car roomette to San Francisco.

There’s no place that wants me.
There are 31 stops over the two days.
The Zephyr’s been around as long as I have.
Between Angel and Seraphim, among mountain and plain,
Snowflakes dissipate, as the train finds cloudless climes,
White in the moon my younger self appears.

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