August 5, 2009 8:05 PM
For Mr. Whitman, from Manhattan
I walk the streets at night
in a shifting trudge-and-glide.
I walk where you walked, where I
think that you walked in the city
that once called you home,
as you wrote it and sighed it and
watched it all too as the colors
and people collapsed by and through.
You spoke to us in your time,
and bound it for us to find.
To me, you're a wondrous red balloon
in an old suburban yard
(with a golden ribbon and a tell-tale card)
that told me that you were here too
and that you might be with me now,
watching me read you in infinite blue.
And I see you in brown with clairvoyant eyes
and a cascading treasure-mop beard,
And I think we might've shared a smile
had we passed on a trudge-and-glide.
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