Crossing to Friday Harbor
No crowds on this ferry, Walt.
Not many faces looking into my face. I left my car by the others
and climbed two flights of stairs
to the passenger seats, beside
spray-splattered windows. I was not dreaming of my part in the great
play. I too lived, with my fellow
riders over the water. They
lolled, scattered over the hundred seats, feet up, phones to their ears.
The sun was half an hour from darkness
and the clouds hugged us
tightly. I could not listen to conversation; I descended back to
the car deck where water was pounding.
Gulls’ bellies floated
at eye level over the air-wake and veered away. Behind the wheel
I almost fell asleep to the roar of the boat engine.
I too loved well some cities,
but far away, and some people, far away. I loved other ferries
and other crossings to distant harbors.
I try to find my way to disregard
what comes between us, any of us. I was cold there in my car,
exhausted from traveling, fearful of Christmas’
sad memories in my blood —
so I thought of you, whose embrace of the human swings wider than
death, who wrote time or place — distance avails not.