re Joyce

Six Sixteen

It’s Bloomsday in the Northeast Kingdom
and “Yes,” he says to himself, silently, sitting
beside a thousand acres of smooth and open
water, counting the seconds the loons can stay
submerged, wishing for even the very slightest
breeze to blow away the biting flies, determined
to wait out the last few days of a coolish Spring.

And “Yes,” he says to himself, Ulysses climbing
into the silver pick-up, contemplating the long
road home, the trials and travails, longing for
simpler destinations, fewer and smaller detours;
“Yes I will,” he thinks, buckling up and promising
himself to make it home again one more time,
to see her at last (Yes!) before he can finally sleep.


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