Going up the Hudson after Twenty Years

The river continues its hard work,

shunting the heavy waters

through the ailing land,

southbound, out of Albany.

In the stunned light the world is mud-

the dank riverbank, the eddies of debris.

And the train too is a dark sleek brown,

rustling with headlines and ennui.

Has some unspoken disaster occurred?

I feel almost at home here,

wedged against the window,

but nothing's the same. The present throws itself

under the wheels. The future

waves from the bridge.

There's not a single hawk or heron

to redeem me. It's too late for nostalgia.

I'll take the stale sandwich,

yesterday's news, the one long hoot of adieu.