Scared, lonely,
a little too close to death,
I leave the apartment
on a Labor Day for a ride
to anywhere, elsewhere,
somewhere not here.

A sign outside a church on Greenwood Street
proclaims:

“GOD DOESN’T PROMISE YOU
A CALM JOURNEY
ONLY A SAFE LANDING”

I drive to Elm Park.

I choose a bench
and sprawl there, arms outstretched
along the back, legs crossed before me.

Round, brown teenage girls
stroll by arm in arm, giggling
(I suspect) at my belly.  A Frisbee
clips my leg, grinds into the gravel
at my feet, and a shaggy blond boy rushes up,
stops just before plowing into me,
apologizes; I acknowledge him
from behind my shades.

I walk up Highland
to the Boynton for a beer
and a slice.  The Red Sox
are playing the White Sox
and losing, but the beer is cold
and the pizza is warm enough;

one regular throws up his hands
at a lost opportunity, bases loaded
and no one scores.  Starts talking about
the early season, “remember that first sweep
of the Yanks? These guys always
break my heart, but I always come back,”
talking to no one, for everyone,
and we all nod, me still in my shades
as I finish and go back to the car.

I take the long way home, pass
that sign again:

“GOD DOESN’T PROMISE YOU
A CALM JOURNEY
ONLY A SAFE LANDING”

and from somewhere,
maybe from the torn-up blacktop
under my protesting tires,
maybe from inside me,
comes The Voice:

round and amused as a brown girl laughing at a fat man,
smooth and amazed as Jacoby Ellsbury stealing home in April
while Andy Petitte isn’t looking,
clocking me as hard as an errant Frisbee:

“I NEVER PROMISE ANYTHING
IT’S ALWAYS THERE FOR THE TAKING
DON’T BELIEVE EVERYTHING YOU READ”