after Guadalcanal

the last sea victory of the war
came and went
as ships sank and ships sped
away
but i was long gone,
watching the beautiful blond
at her table
by the street-side window
during happy hour and the crowd was
getting juiced
while loud music jammed
and the high seats where people sat
kept getting shoved around
during epic journeys down memory lane
where the wine was dry,
the beer fresh and cold,
and no one stayed old
wearing bright sneakers, chasing youth
talking about playground bruises
or writing a possible book
about puppy loves
or a loose bra strap
hanging from a high school shoulder
giving some thoughtful boy a wink.
i heard them think
above the cocktail noise,
so many years after Guadalcanal,
and grabbed my paper and wrote
sentimental lines,
too many to be a simple short story,
too few to be a one night stand;
i stuffed that paper in a side pocket,
stood firmly and with much delight
took a lady's hand,
held it tight,
waiting for an evening traffic light
to finally change
into something we knew;
crossing the street,
walking under the rising of a harvest moon,
fresh air on a fresh face,
to see a movie called The Wife
while sitting on a sweet sofa
eating hot popcorn with just one hand
surrounded by
other members of the art house audience
and the faint smell of another quiet night
in Stockholm, Sweden on the screen:
sea breezes and limousines,
a burning cigarette,
crisp champagne,
literary lounges,
and a Nobel Prize ceremony;
she wrote the books but he signed his name,
then died of a heart attack on the hotel bed,
and she told her children everything,
later,
it was said.