Stiff as noisy oars, my rocking chair creaks
in concert with me. Crows could sing better.
Always I shut our baby’s door, enclose my croon.
My arm braces her moonlit back, holds shadows
soft against her face. I sing Moon River, wider than
a mile, sing it as if each line were a raft slowly crossing.
When I reach wherever you’re going, I know I’m
singing the rest to myself until I tiptoe back to bed.
You are there, asleep, far from me as the River’s other side.
You old heartbreaker, I muse; that had been me. Old
Heartbreaker, you mischief maker. Not so long ago,
when our baby’s floor cooled my feet, you would
warm them. Heartbreaker. Now they are more than
cold. Wherever you’re going, I’m going… Going where?
You’re not going my way, don’t want to anymore. Still,
Mercer’s lyric plays, sticks to me like memories of our
Huckleberry days. Though your back is turned, I long
for you, so distant from our Moon River and me.