an exceptional gift for flattening things.
I’m at the Gypsy Cafe and my mind is
not my favorite song.
I wouldn’t object to a little remorse;
it’s to be downright expected but,
in fact, I’m literally weeping from a burst
of traditional matter (having parked
behind the house by the kitchen entrance –
of our old apartment on Catherine).
Everything so full of endless possibilities,
pink and cream roses splayed against
an old brick wall, snow pittering
into the recycle bins, old movies at our
noses in the slim living room, some brown birds
flying in through the open windows,
mesmeric sex in the,
soft skin of....
For revenge, I’m leaning toward
the idea of Boston.
