Chenango
Woke up in her bed
And I knew that I would not see her again.
She left for work at eight,
And here it was a quarter after ten.
In those days I lived a transient existence
Playing gin mills all along the road ahead.
At some dive on the old Chenango River
I strummed a bunch of chords
And made ten dollars and a bed.
Sunlight cursed my brain,
Her face and half the night were just a blur,
But on her dressing table
Was everything that I know about her:
The remnant of a violet -scented candle,
A wooden box for hair barrettes and things,
A dozen bracelets strung across a mirror,
And a jewel box left open filled with jade and silver rings.
A small glass unicorn stood in the corner
Beside a rumpled paperback of
"I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings".
And slipped into the mirror,
Was something that kept tugging at my eye,
A faded photograph
Of a younger version of her with some guy.
I gathered all these objects in my memory,
I soaked them up and packed them all away,
And though I never went back to Chenango
I've carried them all with me right to this very day,
To this very day.
