colin's grandfather asks me if i'm cold. i am

but it is too pleasant an evening, and the talk is too pleasant 

to admit it, to bring it to an end, i won’t even

get up for a sweater, afraid the moment will pass

we're on our second bottle of wine, yet i'm okay

i've rarely felt so clearheaded, rarely have i been 

less lafraid, as i have been, of adult conversation

the talk has been about me, of course, but not entirely

i know of his sons, that good intentions aren't enough

and of his wife, long passed, i listen without comment

and of colin, a few choice words, true and funny and loving

the moon is waning gibbon to the south, to the west

if i have faith, is the ocean, to the north, cassiopeia

and to the east, brushing-out her sea-tangled braid, my ghost

~

tell me about this ghost of yours, colin's grandfather says

i may as well talk about the wind, i say. very poetic, says he

tell me about this ghost of yours, he repeats

she isn't a ghost, i say. she is real, though an apparition

coming and going—like the wind, like the moon and tides

she is teaching me patience, something new to me

and it is doing me no harm, but, i say to colin's grandfather

i have to talk of another tonight, a friend, like yourself

who is teaching me honesty, another quality i've too often lacked

go on, says colin's grandfather. it is, i say, her heart

and it is her mind, it is her passion and it is her reason

and it is an empirically grounded philosophy that concedes

that happy endings are rare, and the question becomes, 

as it does for all of us, to indulge the moment or nurse the future

~

could you be a little more vague, asks colin's grandfather

i'm sorry, i say, knowing i could be more vague, it must be the wine

never, says colin's grandfather, never blame the wine for your faults

chastened, i apologize. it must be that i'm an idiot, i say

must be, says colin's grandfather, must be. my own grandfather

philosophizes much, but listens poorly. i'm not used to this—

this understated wisdom. the conversation ebbs and flows.

are all your friends women, he asks. gee, i ask myself, are they

not quite all, i say, thinking of colin, but most.

and why is that, he asks. i don't know, i say. i like baseball and women

but i think it is this—men scare me with their avoirdupois

and certainty, with their single-mindedness and their assumptions

i articulate this as best i can to colin's grandfather

but his eyes have closed. i close my eyes too, and imagine waves