Provincetown Lost and Found

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Provincetown Lost and Found

Let me tell you

how I woke

this morning in

a different bed. Facing

south, unhurried, wrapped

in a softer light as if

passed though

a cloud. Oh, to not speak

for hours. To listen:

the sweet lament of

morning doves,

squirrels gossiping, the holy

call of the day’s

first ferry, the distant

rustle of yesterday’s news.

Outside my morning

walk begins with the kind

sway and creak of worn boardwalk,

then muffled side streets,

pink peonies weighty and glistening

with last night’s rain, more

than enough.

 “What would you like?”

the young woman asked

at the bakery, her vowels

Russian round. And

the blueberry scone lay so

lovely behind glass, the

glass door behind me open

to the already clamoring hum

of tourists eager

to purchase the day.

My second words

of the morning came later:

 “I’m Guy,”  spoken to

the man making nametags in

the Unitarian church named LOVE.  Inside,

a high and bright emptiness. My

simple emptiness. The choir sang

“Over the Rainbow”.  My first

words of the morning had been, “Nothing,

thank you,”

to the Russian behind

the glass counter. A wash of shame

at how easy it was to want

more than enough.

My third words: “Peace be

with you,” to the hand

reaching over the pew to

my hand which did not

rise to wipe away

tears before shaking his.  Outside

a swarm of lost bees

surrounded me, followed

for a block.  I was

given free coffee in the church

basement,

and a cookie.

Guy Thorvaldsen