For My Uncle

May 14, 1929 — April 21, 1994

Today reminds me of those windy Boston days
when I'd climb on a bus smelling of cherries and dust
as the gray sky hung on to the horizon.

Wed meet in the lobby of the Park Plaza
or Copley Place, sometimes South Station.
You'd be reading the Globe,
always called President Bush a sap,
at home amid the noonday crowd.

You'd see me and smile, heavy black
eyebrows twitching above your glasses.
You'd lumber over to me, squeeze my elbow
and say, you look good, kid! steering
me to your rented car.

We'd eat lunch at a different restaurant each time —
every kind of food in every corner of that city —
then catch a matinee movie or musical.
Isn't that actress terrific? you'd always ask
while we walked to Bailey's for vanilla cremes.

When I let you in on my teenage dreams,
you told me they would all come true.

When you'd drop me off at the station,
you would never come inside and wait; instead,
you'd press a check into my hand, insist that I take it,
and bustle your way into the pedestrian traffic.

As I stepped into cherry-choked air,
I'd ride the swells of endless possibility home.