On Friday night, anyone
with half a twitch
of romance is here.
Maybe it’s the 50-degree climb
up old Magos Hill Road.
The guard of old oak trees
around the water
like the edge of sleep.
The field of tall grass
to cross before you lay
your date on the smooth, sloping

But by Sunday morning the Reservoir
is forgotten.
No neighbors, no dogs.
Even the crickets sleep
somewhere else.
Sometimes crushed Schaefer cans tin
into each other at the edge of the water.

I come here to talk
to the old Wellesley.
I sit on the edge
of the dock, ask the ghosts
what they know about the future.

Once I found my sister’s friend Alice
asleep on the planks, dressed
for a costume party.
I wondered who she followed
through the trees.
We walked home
after the sun came up.

Some day, when I’m old enough
to drive up the hill,
I’ll bring a girl here.

She’ll pull a joint
from her purse, and we’ll spend
the whole night talking, maybe
kissing on the dock.
And Sunday morning we’ll steal
into the old Wellesley, forgotten

Added: February 17, 2012 | Last changed: May 11, 2014