The wind comes down the long spaces

The wind comes down the long spaces
Questing for my hand, like the muzzle
Of an old blind dog.

In the airport, a boy of five or six
Korean but American-born
Peeks at my screen.

I smile and, emboldened, he reads the words
I have been copying from my book, lines from Auden.

"That doesn't make sense," he announces.
"You're right," I agree.
"How can kisses get lost?" he asks.

The wind comes down the long spaces
Asking for news of the mayors of
Small towns far away long ago
That never amounted to much.

I have never heard of them.
Somewhere in yellow curling newsprint
They smile wanly, no doubt,
At the long-vanished crowd.