That Summer in New Hampshire
That Summer in New Hampshire Water Song Part II When my ship comes in is a phrase we all know, or a certain generation knows, and it's about the thing hoped for but not quite seen. The poet's success is some ship out in the bay for many of us, and maybe it's when we realize it's better for the ship to stay out on the water that we come to understand the real prize of this thing called being a poet. I left Baltimore and drove up to Indian Pond, New Hampshire, without a clue as to how long it would take. I had been on the road for eight hours and realized it would be a few more before I got to the turn I was supposed to take to get to Catrina's house. There was supposedly a mailbox there at the road just past the junction where New Hampshire met Vermont, but it was dark. There were no lights on the road, just the road itself and the way it revealed it's curves and dips to my Datsun 510. Recently, I had to explai