on a tarred street / i came to be a driver in a car, / stopped at a red light,
So twenty years of friendship / ended in a small gesture / like a door sliding shut,
My fingers were slick with Crisco / when my heart first broke.
I preferred Polliwog, even then, / squatting by the stream
No purpose to my days, I set small fires / to pass the time.
There it is / my wind in a room / smaller than old- / boy’s suit case
Shielded by rusted guardrails— / two lanes traffic-choked.
We met in a think tank. / It existed behind the firewall.
With yellowing newspapers on the porch. / A mailbox, overflowing.
I dwell in practicality, / ugly & unpraised.
