It’s 9 p.m. I’m taking the dog
For an evening walk, up by the mall,
Then following the canal. The moon
Won’t rise till later, and the clouds streak
Like white chalk against an enormous
Black sky. This is one of the first nights
Of autumn. There’s a breeze, and my shirt
Isn’t sticking to my back. I should
Feel happy. I could be walking on
A sidewalk in Barcelona or
Madrid, Mexico City, Paris,
Or Bogotá—the air would touch
My face the same way. The headlights of
Cars would sweep across the darkened trees
In those cities just as they do here,
The car radios releasing a
Few notes of music before the night
Swallows them. I watch the red taillights
Until they disappear and think of
The things I could’ve done and didn’t,
The places I could have lived and been
A different person, worn a hat
Like my father’s—I wrote a poem
About that once, the gray fedora
He’d put on to go to the office.
I found it in his closet when he
Died. It smelled of hair tonic and sweat.
It’s sad how we leave these things behind.
They’re the poems everybody writes
And forgets about. They line the shelves
Of thrift shops, then reincarnated
Into other lives, start all over.
It’s strange to think that someone else wore
My father’s hat, that someone else’s
Fingers lifted it by the crown,
Tried it on, and pulled down the soft brim.
My closet is full of stuff like that,
Shirts Ximena gave me, my jacket
That reminds me of Spain, blue jeans, and
Shoes with worn-down heels, missing laces,
So many things that go unnoticed.
The dog has spotted a yogurt cup
In the grass and is fascinated.
I pull him away, and we walk down
The hill to the street and the narrow
Sidewalk we follow on our way home.
Published in ONE ART: a journal of poetry, Dec. 6, 2025.
