The Past I Pass

On the soft side of an evening
I stroll through summer's yellow press,
pass old haunts as dusk lurks around a corner.
St. Joe's steeple anchors the sky.

The door to the Russian Center
rests ajar—hints at deep red interiors,
wobbly ceiling fans, a bright wall of mirrors,
their reflections unforgiving.

Strains of piano or violin might float
over the dance floor, those years
I chased the tail of desire
against weak knees and all good advice.

I couldn't get down to the amber core.
The past stares back, unblinking.
In my pocket, questions jangle
with a few fifty-cent regrets.

I try to reconcile the balance.
That old rapture smolders,
and I hope in the falling night
I can give some dream its due.