I sit in the corner of the kitchen,
the Twins on,
your Invisible Strings in my hands,
Bob gone
to a poetry reading
and perhaps you are there
reading these lines,
melancholy, just as I find them.

Not rolling an inch in this chair
until I finish the last word—wonder
once more if the 5th Avenue
accompanying your mother’s death
                                          is Decatur—
until I see it was just an anomaly,
yesterday’s win in the Bronx.

Thanks for the visit.


Note: This poem was originally written as an email to the poet Jim Moore and is the companion piece to the essay, “Of Friends We Don’t Know.”

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