“The only ones who write like that are off the grid now,” said Gilles.
—Dana Ward
This broth is so good I could drink it forever. Then I
look at the photograph of my great grandmother
(“Mombam”) and me in her rock garden. She was
pretty short (I only now realize). You better wake up.
I realize that I am confused.
Previously, the dog barked into my head. The
wrong way. Suddenly there is silence. My hand,
my entire arm, is trembling. A meter above my
left foot. (I only wrote meter because it would be
funny?
to write my hand is trembling a few feet above my
right foot.) (Which is it, however, my right or my
left foot?) (And plus Mombam was a Van Meter
by marriage). Then I think about the 1970s.
It doesn’t matter what I do or what I say. This,
for example, is my second double-cup of broth
(and this time it’s only chicken). After an un-
happy moment, we enjoy the rest of the weekend.
Love is like that, I think, years later. Whether
at Cafe du Nord watching Gravy Train perform
or paddle-boating on Stow Lake. That’s a car.
Vvroom! There goes a motorcycle. It is July 1.
