It would never be just one last trip.

 

I would promise myself

that once I uttered, with tears in my throat

catching my breath and stalling the moment

in my final

goodbyes to the stone faced French lady

on the waters, no sword in hand, a now skewed vision

of what it was to be part of a less free world

in her dead expressionless eyes,

a monkey on her back, damned dirty

politics playing games with a woman I love,

it still would never be goodbye.

 

I want one more trip to New York

and see the things that I could not see

the last time I said goodbye

with the damage I had caused at a party

on 77^th Street, her final kiss goodbye

as I walked out the door.

 

I want to see Dennis and Carole again,

their homes always welcoming

and full of stories of how they met

an Englishman abroad,

I would like very much to shake

the hand of Carlos and Time

once more.

 

But that would not be the end,

I have never seen Chicago, a baseball

thrown in anger, I have never seen the Pacific,

all rolling hills of watery fury, the beauty

of such a sight from the beaches

where Jim Morrison prowled

and lurked, disturbed by his own brilliance.

 

I would go back again and again and again

to see you and kiss you

dear sweet lady of liberty, and I would

remember my own liberty, so hard

fought for, now under flag of truce,

now under white flag of surrender,

I find the days of your shores, so distant,

so fading

into a memory

that nobody else will care for.

 

Ian D. Hall 2017