Coach House stopover Saturday, February 23, 2013


I’m back to routine breakfast at the Coach House each Saturday morning, to collect the news, if not the same news as before, then the detailed accounts of some event that has somehow slipped through the cracks of my life, the day to day of the week, I would other wise have missed if I did not pause to breathe deep and read over coffee and eggs.

I flip through page after page to see what it is I’ve missed and how much better someone else does what I do, often outdone over the last few years by people who have found hear in news that has become too routine for me, when I would rather spend my life expressing my feelings in poetry and saving the world in novels.

And this place, this historic stop over for old coaches from the farmers markets in Paterson to the shipping terminals in Weehawken still connects the pieces of my life, though my wheels roll over asphalt not plank boards as I steer my way into Hoboken each Tuesday, doing my bit to contribute to the ongoing news biz.

And here on this rainy Saturday in February, I turn the pages searching for bits of news I know I can no longer find there just as I miss the history of the ships that once graced the harbor where office buildings now stand, the mists hiding Manhattan the way they might have Avalon, although I am no King Arthur and bear no legendary sword, just this deeply flawed lesser warrior struggling with a fate I cannot clearly see.

 


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