This last poem is like the meeting
at the train station in the firebrand
television show about people who
work with no memory of their lives
and who also live their lives with
no memory of their work. Astounding
in precision, heartbreaking and then
liberating. It’s the liberation we’re
working ourselves up to here. In this
tawdry diary. Oh, don’t feign that you
never knew. The essence of all of this
is but a record of existence. Not a cold
and scientific record, no. One with all of
the foibles of a 13-year old’s locked journal.
[after several attempts] “Such Childish Habits!”
