Poem: September 1, 2019

French Lick, Indiana

Here we are again,
diving the late summer
roads to Labor Day

in French Lick, Indiana
and the condo on the hill.
Small, really, for all of us

but a nice way to contain
the games and lunches
and drinking, to celebrate

a couple of birthdays.
And we will swim and
shop the corridors,

the novelty stores in
the big hotels, like we
do every year- hats, bitters

music boxes and books.
And we'll eat too much
and drink cocktails

and spend too much
time ordering our days,
traveling in groups.

And the kids will insist
on ice cream from
the shop in the West Baden

which we will eat on
the sweeping green porches,
creaking the rocking chairs.

And someone will want
to walk in the gardens,
and the sun will be hot,

but we will walk until
we find ourselves taking
photos by the fountain,.

Every year, photos
by the fountain, on loungers
under the dome, so

predictable and cozy
like a habit, a long inward
sigh, a long memory

that spans across years,
always saying goodbye
to summer, always

walking the same hill,
always shuffling the same
cards around the table.