Hank

The Northwest has a different meaning
in this hour of the day.
Hey, Hank!
I’m trying to reach you by the telephone
standing in my blue boots,
but your old call box isn’t living here no more.
Hollywood and Western has truly made a switch.
No more ladies with the leopard print.
No more gentlemen with eyes to squint
at the devastation
of where you
and I grew up.
You know Hank, I never knew the snow.
Not the way nature intended anyway.

Yet, here I stand on Sunset, check.
Western, check.     Hollywood, check.
Melbourne, Vermont check, check check!
Like when I was 20 summers long
stretching out my eardrums
hoping to catch some of your phrases;
some of your breaths.
A mere little prospect. Tiny.
Seeking you out Hank.
Like snowflakes on my tongue.

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