I once saw a whale in the Delaware,
early one April morning.
And I would have tugged at your sweater
(had you been there) and pointed, cried out,
“Look! A whale!” and you would have seen him
stalled, fathoms away from the “Trenton Makes” bridge,
staring up as if to scoff at such a boast.
He lifted his tail fin; in hopes of waving down a cap, or a helicopter.

He waited.
I watched him wait.
Until we had waited too long,
and he turned to me to ask where this was.
“It’s where Washington crossed.”
His fears confirmed; he had made a wrong turn.
And I asked him why he had gone so far from home.

He had heard from the Herring that you haven’t lived
until you’ve seen a Broadway play. So he took off for the Hudson
in hopes of catching Phantom before it went away again.

I made sure to tell him that he didn’t have to go.
Princeton has shows and shops and restaurants.
Trenton has…well, it has…killer tomato pies.
And of course there’s the shore.

He listened, but said that salt water taffy just isn’t his thing.
Tomatoes upset his stomach, and intellectuals make him nervous.

I sighed.
He swam in circles
until I broke down
and gave him directions.

You can take the transit.
You can take the turnpike.
Or you can stay on this
until you reach—

And then he thanked me for my time
and he left me by the bridge,
and I watched him tread fresh river water
until he looked like a small fish.