I want nothing at all
with I want it all?
—William Corbett
No photographic memory here.
But I, too, remember the death
of the milk bottle.
Was it slower
in Arkansas?
Probably.
And Cecil, the driver of the
Wholesome Bread truck (my
mom would wave whenever our
Pinto crossed paths with his boxy
red truck).
Obviously something is already
here. Obviously. But what?
A Union Square Christmas tree?
An 11:20am meeting at Mont-
gomery Street Station (as Otto
heads from work to school)?
My pen running out of ink?
Love?
I believe it is.
I should be as important as
bad American poetry.
A
selfish baby on these thoughts.
Why don’t I
believe in the
futility of persistence?
Then the stuff I stand for
without learning too much.
To get it out. Names
names
names, some of whom jiggle a
bell, somewhere a tiny tinkle,
but mostly....
A small hole through which
only the perfectly ignorant
can squeeze into.
And, per-
chance (AMAZEDLY), through. 
