Love Poem to Chautauqua, NY

Our story is long and lush, but
here is my favorite chapter:

Cold and crushed by college,
I caught a Greyhound, ran away to you.
The driver dropped me in Westfield
and the stars laughed, winking at one another as I
began my thirteen-mile trek to you.

In Mayville, I stopped at that Quality Market,
warming up while buying generics,
beer and smokes,
each product dressed in black and white.
I was always broke.

I ignored the holes in my boot and glove
while your lake air swept snowdrift ghosts.

Gramma's spare key was still on my chain,
my tangible talisman of comfort and joy.
It still worked, and I dared
to twist the little doorbell for a jolting, echoing, trill.

The cottage had no central heat, and water was shut off for winter,
so I bundled in musty quilts, lit candles,
used your trusting public library's pink and black bathroom.
I wandered through your gated grounds
without seeing another soul,
stopped by your snowy woods,
your Rickety Rackety Thunder Bridge,
your Hall of Philosophy,
your amphitheater,
your lake,
your patient, empty Victorians.
I watched icicles drip from second-floor porches,
wondered where your fruit bats were hibernating.

All weekend,
I read and wrote by candlelight,
pretended to be Abe Lincoln,
breathed in your ancient air,

and heard myself think.