An Assault on Repartee
(Memory
I can smell the
emptiness as I pour
myself a cup from
the two-liter Diet
Dr Pepper. Already
I’m drained. But it’s
Saturday morning.
I’m reading the work
of a poet with whom
I’ve danced for years
but can’t recall ever
reading that dancer’s
words. Which reminds
me what a lousy list
ener I am. “I do listen,
though,” spoken in ear
nest to everyone who
has ever said a word
to me. The fan blow
ing a bit of cool San
Francisco air at my
left knee makes a
few impossible
noises, wobbly,
rasped.
