we can’t go back
--for kristofer collins
but it’s tuesday morning
sitting here over this coffee
another ceaseless brooklyn morning
shoulder pain and nose hairs
thinking but if i could go back
just once or a few times
maybe a weekday afternoon
with kris at the beehive
over those cappuccinos that
burned our hands each time
we took them up the steps
to that large room i remember
being bathed in gray light
from a sun that never quite
got caught in the pittsburgh sky
we’d sit somewhere where
we could both watch coeds and see that
oil painting of a southern preacher
the one who looked like george jefferson
and of course there’d be kerouac talk
conversation about girls and family and plans
to get out of pittsburgh for the summer
the ones that never materialized once
we received our first spring paychecks
and i’m not saying things were better back then
you see i’m done with that illusion
and i’ve somewhat accepted
the encroachment of time
maybe they were just different or
a touch less burdened or burdened
in a way that was suitable for the age
and i don’t go anywhere now where
i can kill hours like that
daydreaming away an afternoon
without thinking about the time i’ve lost
and most nights i can’t stay up
any later than ten on the dot
kris, we’ve talked kerouac to death
but, man, it’s been a long time
since i’ve had a cappuccino
bathed in that gray home city light
or really felt the sensation on
my chapped hands as i let them burn. 
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