What I do is creepy but I still feel you
through each and every explosion.
They’re usually brief—like the one
this afternoon under the PG&E building—
but oh—each are so momentous
(yeah, that’s too easy, I know). I’ve
lived in this neighborhood for six years
it keeps vanishing and then reappearing
with slightly different smokestacks.
Today I want to give some of it back—
some of your passion (I know why you
lost it)—but you’re never at the intersection
I take a picture of every day at 5:30pm
(sometimes later) and beside the evidence
always gets destroyed. Either I lose my
camera, the negatives are incinerated
in fires set (Accidentally? I wonder.)
by the neighbors’ dogs, or the
—memory—
I suppose you’d call it today, simply
dissipates into oblivion. Fortunately,
this is one easy Thanksgiving,
four and a half hours before the train
takes off to the upper reaches of some
vapid mid-section. It’s the last train,
I might add. I am, as ever, the
curmudgeon with the pain-in-the-
ass pair of women on cellphones,
wound up in Rochester, sitting in the
cafe car sipping a ginger ale. I’ve
been here before (haven’t I always?).
And I’m so sorry I left you out of
every single story but these tracks are
endless, and besides, it was all for
good reasons. Such as I’m still too
busy watching teenagers undress for
their naps as the moon rises permanently
over Cedar Hill (where, incidentally,
a lost Macy’s parade balloon just exploded,
filling our nights with legions of fresh-faced
youths, each one looking for its very own
swish and bump on the runway). Yep,
that’s still me, always at the ready.
