A Night of Invisibility
There are no lines outside the little grill.
No tourists gathered for lobster rolls or clams.
A lone cook is cleaning the floors with nothing else to do
at the dinner hour.
It is the off season and this is what you come for,
the emptiness. The quiet.
You are a lousy tourist, searching for dark places
where you can bleed in peace,
where no one is there to notice the falling light,
where no one expects
anything of you
and you can cry, or stare into the dusk like a dead man,
where there is no one to disturb
and you can be invisible as you die
for just a time. A day perhaps,
or a night too. Not too long. No,
long enough only that you can rest
from the pretense that looks so normal.
So quiet, you can sit on the bench
and in the night of invisibility,
you heal. The poison seeps into the sand.
It leaves your soul, and in the morning
you are ready to be filled,
the miracle at work,
and it is only when you return
that anyone notices
anything was wrong.
About this poem
I am in Provincetown. This was written last night, a Sunday night in the off season and there is hardly a soul here. Just the way I like it. Just the way I need it.
I am a lousy tourist, I think. A better pilgrim.