not for the first time, nor likely the last—
not until the skyline expands
and the salt breeze reasserts its claim.
All this ferrying back and forth
—a transcontinental sojourn—
this liquid poison is Charon
fording the fickle Styx of hedonism.
What awaits on these once familiar shores?
Well-worn in the labyrinth of memory:
Do the angles appear more acute,
The scents more stringent,
The scenery less inane?
Is it but a trick of the light,
or the fallibility of sight through rose-colored lenses?
Perhaps it’s just an ember rekindled
for a transient hearth in limbo.
It is surely nothing more than rogue anecdotes
and a forceful fumbling for familiarity.
Liquid supper in LaGuardia,
if only it were for the last time:
farewells parch the soul,
leave hearts a husk
only to be replaced by the fading,
orgiastic city lights swallowed steadily by
Midwest oblivion.
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