Late one night at a roadhouse
a little down from where I lived
on the edge of a California desert,
I happened to hear Percy Sledge live.
I remember his voice rising
to such heights of conviction that night,
I felt lucky to have spotted
his name on the lit-up yellow sign outside.
As I listened over my drink,
I silently wished him well
and extended that wish to Mrs. Sledge
and all the little Sledges
if there happened to be any around.
Years later, when I lived in Florida,
we had a plumber
whose name was Lynn Hammer.
I like to introduce people to one another,
but Lynn Hammer said
he had never heard of Percy Sledge
and put his head back under the sink.
So many miscues like that these days,
as when I remarked
in a store that featured fancy pastries,
“This isn’t your grandmother’s coffee shop!”
and the girl glanced up at me
as if I were from another planet,
which, of course, I was,
if the Past can be added
to the ones already orbiting the sun
including our small blue one,
which is carrying you and me
and everyone else,
along with the singer and the plumber,
the barista and yes, maybe even her grandmother,
in a big oval somewhere in the icy immensity of space.