On the night of your death
I eat alone, stomach clenched as tight
as the adductor muscles in my scallops,
I prod, and prod, chopsticks in my right
hand, ring on my left.

I go back to the Green Trails days,
the days when we rode in your Jeep
your dark, curly hair blowing in the wind.
And the nights--
curfews looming
over us like storm clouds.

Our hands were not wrinkled then,
they were baby smooth as our faces
when we dressed in blue and walked the
stage that May, waving goodbye to our youth,
waving goodbye to each other.

I walked the bayou that summer,
the blue bonnets near your house
were unusually dull. And when it rained,
your West Point letters came pouring down,
and I thought of you 
( I always thought of you).

We called them the Green Trails Days.
The days before Sam Houston ordered
the bridge across the bayou, if you
were still here, that bridge
would lead me straight to you.