I want to go back some years before that
was written to some poems.
Starting with something out of The Moving Target,
which was published in the early 60s.
Happens to desks all the time, but I didn't
know it happened that fast.
Poem called "Departure's Girlfriend."
Loneliness leapt in the mirrors, but all week I
kept them covered like cages.
Then I thought of a better thing.
And though it was late night in the city, there I was on my way
to my boat, feeling good to be going,
hugging this big wreath with the words like real silver--
bon voyage.
The night was mine, but everyone's, like a birthday.
It's fur touched my face in passing.
I was going down to my boat, my boat
to see it off and glad at the thought.
Some leaves of the wreath were holding my hands,
and the rest waved goodbye as I walked as
though they were still alive.
And all went well till I came to the wharf and no one.
I say no one, but I mean there was this young man maybe out
of the Merchant Marine in some uniform
and I knew who he was-- just the same when he said to me "where
do you think you're going?"
I was happy to tell him.
But he said to me, "it isn't your boat, you don't have one."
I said, "it's mine I can prove it".
Look at this wreath I'm carrying to it--
bon voyage.
He said, "this is the stone wharf lady.
You don't own anything here."
And as I was turning away the injustice of it lit up
the buildings, and there I was in the other and hated city
where I was born, where nothing is moored,
where the lights crawl over the stone like flies spelling now,
now, and the same fat chances roll their many eyes.
And I step once more through a hoop of tears
and walk on, holding this buoy of flowers
in front of my beauty.
Wishing myself the good voyage.
[APPLAUSE]