If you were here, I’d point to the night sky,
cite how the three-quarter moon, lopsided
as some ancient Roman coin, must have spied
you waving last year from that high, crowded
row in War Memorial Stadium,
and returned this evening for your encore.
But you’re not here, are you? Among loud drums,
Go Rockets! shouts, crowd currents flowing forth
and back like conscience, I glance from time to
time, thinking I see you between pass plays,
waving down to me as I wave up. Though
I know that’s not how life goes, it can’t sway
me from past moments composing my tune
of memory. Or so I tell the moon.
Roger Armbrust
November 30, 2008
