Leaving Rochester
From this bridge, I see the ducks,
A little family far below, in the water,
In the moment, no past or future,
In their own lives.
The gulls, however, fly this high,
And higher still, by the Winged Messenger,
golden-gleaming, perched these sixty years and more
atop the Aqueduct Building where my grandfather worked.
After the crash, and the retreat to the farm,
did he daydream, digging in the dirt,
of a return to his past researches?
I try to picture him crossing this bridge,
passing inside the grey stone walls,
digging through the books and papers,
but I have only one picture of him in my head.
Children, we looked up from our games,
Fell silent as he emerged from the back room,
Scattered, and regrouped, to chatter and run
Outside the farmhouse,
Far away.
From this bridge, I see our public library,
An impressive edifice: towering columns,
cool marble, a grand sweep of steps,
Literary quotes carved in the granite blocks.
Did my grandmother tease herself
in the farming town's functional library
with thoughts of writing these quotes
on the walls surrounding her?
I've walked through the apartments their home here became.
A pleasant street, with quiet beauty in the fall.
I've lived just a few blocks away these last three years.
Will my nieces walk there some day and wonder about me?
Surely the river, canal, bay and lake will still be here,
but will the stately mansions, the elegant concert halls,
the beautiful parks?
Did she wonder much the same?
From this bridge, I see my car.
I am leaving this town I have come to love.
Like him so long ago, I have been laid off,
and am moving to a much smaller town,
Far away.
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