I sit in the corner of the kitchen,
the Twins on,
your Invisible Strings in my hands,
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
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.”