Meryl Stratford
October, in Amsterdam

We wake up in Amsterdam.
It’s 1973.
We’ve sailed through so many time zones—
I don’t know what time it is in Buffalo,
Bermuda, the Azores, or Dover.
It’s almost noon in Amsterdam.
Last night we walked the red light district,
saw women perched like wares in windows.
We are broke.
You’re sulking in your bunk
or tinkering with something down below
while I’m out dodging bicycles,
crossing bridges, getting lost on my way
to the Van Gogh Museum.
You sulk, and so many years later
I still wonder why.
You never saw the Sunflowers.
You will never see this poem.