Last-Century Tells

I remember Jim Carroll serenading us with his needle
sharp poems from the bottom of Foss Hill.

I remember Spring Fling 1984.
(Or, was it 1983?)

Spotting the old observatory
crowning the top, he snarls

at our impossibly young distracted selves:
You can all go look at the fuckin’ stars.

Some loudmouth students reply:
Just wait till nightfall, Jim. Just wait.

All I catch is
fuckin’ stars.

I remember shadow echoes
and the storms they cause crashing around me

by the time I hop on the back
of the last motorcycle I will ever ride.

Racing downhill in the dark
spitting out grass, dirt, and famous feathers.

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