Waxing Gibbous

I gave too many nos. I offended.
What I wanted was to see the old streets on foot.

On a Monday so many places are closed
there’s only the past to explore.

He couldn’t relate;
he didn’t have a lot of hard yeses or nos.

I said I’d already met my desires—
the lake, the show, the café—

but didn’t say

that’s how I’ve felt about my whole life
since I was twenty-eight.

Now what?

Now the snowglobe shakes.
Now the dice roll.
Now the moon rocket launches.

*

Still, the lake hoodwinks you
with its turquoise smear
and you forget your ghosts

your youth
devoured by vape shops,
your parents rotting

in their house up the shore.
Where you grew up
if you can call it that.

Stone lions keep watch.
Lighthouses flash.
A turret on every corner

and the moon, still changing,
waxing gibbous over Fachwerk
and oxidized lampposts.

You ignore the signs,
fall upon a folded footbridge,
scramble up the ravine instead.