You have been looking at a broken clock for years now
Always waiting for the right time to come

As I gaze at a cherished photographs
of my youthful travels,
I review the experiences
I enjoyed while they were happening
and now reviewing and savouring
the details of the experiences
I enjoy the experiences again.

rain down corpuscles of light
into the salty ocean waves
bend for me and smite
the darkness of this drowning cave
where I am held by the cross section
of some fourth dimensional abnormality
maybe it is just my reflection
maybe it is just my reality
something I can't seem to picture
a Corpus Hypercubus sort of memory
tied down by mental strictures
left wondering in this somber reverie

Safe and sound back home again,
Let the fire burn bright.
Lost and found back home again,
Sing our stories all night.

So long the road for weary toes.
Rest your bones at home again.
We revere the summer’s eve,
O, the reverie.

Ran away at seventeen,
With your high school sweetheart.
Regretful head and grateful bed,
Now the family tree starts.

Golden ticket in your hand,
Given keys to your haven.
Traded that for an M16
To fight for your nation.

You set sail to find yourself
Somewhere in the yonder.
Got more questions than answers,
But was your time squandered?

Well the road is long for weary toes
Only to come home again.
Have some cheer and summer beer,
Enjoy the reverie.

There was a time,
We were together.

There was a time,
We wandered,
Through the silent parks,
Upon the green grass,
Below the willow trees.

Once I knew not,
How strange it could get,
When you’re not there.

It’s come.
It’s come.

The time queer,
The place unknown,
And I’m not who I was.
Lost in a reverie.

I’m wearing your old jacket. Remember? The one you used to fish in. The one with the tear in the silk of the right-hand pocket. You used to tease me. You used to say that this jacket kept your loose change safe from my chocolate addiction. You being left-handed; me being right.

I bury my face in the nap of the moleskin collar. My nostrils fill with your scent - stale cologne, a hint of woodsmoke, and...fish. More disconcerting than unpleasant, it’s all I can do not to choke on my memories of you. Of me and you. Together.

'Tell me, how can I be, now that you alone are gone and I am left behind?'

I feel like I’ve been abandoned in a foreign capital with nothing more than the clothes I stand up in and a wallet full of the wrong kind of currency. The day is drawing to a close. My luggage has disappeared with the exhaust from the bus which took off before I could catch my breath and explain my dilemma - that I’m not sure where I’m going or even where I’ve been. Lately.

Maybe a kindness will point me in the right direction. An open-all-hours diner on an inner-city corner, snuggled in between the high-rise office blocks. Maybe I’ll have enough cash for a meal and a trail of hot, sweet tea to lead me into tomorrow. Maybe I’ll close my eyes and remember where I’m supposed to be and what I should be doing.

And just maybe, as the rhythm of the traffic slows and the night progresses, I’ll find some peace in the ever-changing cityscape. A time-lapse production of late revellers, harried shift workers, the dispossessed and restless; until finally the earliest commuters and exercise fanatics emerge from the riverside neighbourhoods to face the new dawn.

‘Hey, lady.’ A disgruntled voice shatters my reverie. 'I ain’t got all day, y’know.' Scrambling for cash, I reach deep into your left-hand pocket and find...***...a limp fifty-dollar bill...and a battered envelope. There’s a note scrawled on the outside in your familiar hand:

'How can you be, now that I alone have gone and you are left behind? The short answer is: you will be. For you are as singular and complete today as you were before 'mine' became 'yours' and 'I' became 'we'. My darling, I’m no tourist. You know how impatient I can get - always taking the most direct route. I’m just out of sight around the next corner. You take your time and meet me when you’re ready. Sometime...later. Whenever. I’ll be waiting.'

Stunned, I mutter an apology to the waitress and step out from the warm fug of the café into a bright, fresh New York morning. The doorbell tings shut behind me and I realise with new-found clarity that I know exactly where I am. I’m home. It’s not going to be a great day but it’ll be a better one, which is a start. Besides I have things to do - chocolate to buy, a jacket to launder, and a needle to thread.