Sallys Hair

　　by John Koethe

　　 It's like living in a light bulb， with the leaves

　　 Like filaments and the sky a shell of thin， transparent glass

　　 Enclosing the late heaven of a summer day， a canopy

　　 Of incandescent blue above the dappled sunlight golden on the grass.

　　 I took the train back from Poughkeepsie to New York

　　 And in the Port Authority， there at the Suburban Transit window，

　　 She asked， "Is this the bus to Princeton？"-which it was.

　　 "Do you know Geoffrey Love？" I said I did. She had the blondest hair，

　　 Which fell across her shoulders， and a dress of almost phosphorescent blue.

　　 She liked Ayn Rand. We went down to the Village for a drink，

　　 Where I contrived to miss the last bus to New Jersey， and at 3 a.m. we

　　 Walked around and found a cheap hotel I hadn't enough money for

　　 And fooled around on its dilapidated couch. An early morning bus

　　 （She'd come to see her brother）， dinner plans and missed connections

　　 And a message on his door about the Jersey shore. Next day

　　 A summer dormitory room， my roommates gone： "Are you，" she asked，

　　 "A hedonist？" I guessed so. Then she had to catch her plane.

　　 Sally-Sally Roche. She called that night from Florida，

　　 And then I never heard from her again. I wonder where she is now，

　　 Who she is now. That was thirty-seven years ago.

　　 And I'm too old to be surprised again. The days are open，

　　 Life conceals no depths， no mysteries， the sky is everywhere，

　　 The leaves are all ablaze with light， the blond light

　　 Of a summer afternoon that made me think again of Sally's hair.