Echoes of Rosie

Sailing down the avenue,
getting caught every which way,
trying to recall the spot
Where I was to say...
But mind crosses over,
to something muttered before,
about a trip made previously;
so it isn't the right door.
But there was a door once went through,
like a few weeks before,
while the crowd danced on;
two figures left wanting more.
As the rain poured down,
standing outside
missing connections and acting crazy,
with careful eyes open wide.

Just like then, remember?
Those nights in between;
where strolling on hills, in basements,
watching the kids make the scene.
A minstrel sailor sings on
from Jolly Roger Bay,
warning of being good
with a kick, a twist, a sachet.
Never would pay him mind;
a caricature  of the past.
So the counter ticks,
making the night last.
But back to that other time
where I was to say...
shivering in that high top chair.
Pondering the right way.

That night, heard the kind speak,
through long and narrow hall.
About the importance of being earnest.
While one leaned, one a wall.
Scratched sunglasses were the chance
to articulate the night before.
But only a few words spent;
not like the dance floor.
When smoke fell down,
hid behind stones.
A first, like many --
setting the tone.
Like a few hours earlier,
but this time more.
A secret reacher,
from the left, explores.

With the same excitation
which made itself known,
while staring eye to eye,
while the parking lights shone.
About the night I was to say...
petrified of being posey.
But all has been emptied,
and I hear echoes of Rosie.