Oh Henessy

This evening it was you, me, and that golden bottle of Henessey,

White linen cloth draped by the window, you sat next to me looking across the table,

Lights from the boats glittered on the glass, next to the bay.

We watched them scoot with silent effort, come and go

like the flickering candle glow surviving the sea salty breeze.

For a moment after desert, you caught my eye before your buddy jostled your hair

And said he was headed home.

People made their way from the restaurants to the train.

The party ended, the day was gone, tomorrow,

We’d head back to our lives, and Baltimore would be but a bumpy cloud ride home.

One by one they left and our conversation continued.

Smiling, you waited; I lingered,

Your leg under the table rubbed mine.

We both knew the time but pretended

Not to notice as

The train came and left us behind.

What to do at that moment: the struggle of presence.

Between pleasure and responsibility;

The silent distance between you and me and laughing with the Babe as we played

Hide and seek along the field’s statues and wondered;

Could hear the ghost of his fans when he played?

                We spoke of baseball back to the hotel and I waived goodnight as you closed the room door.

                Babe laughed, popped the head off his cigar and hit a homer out of the park.