1495

I’m sitting on the porch

silence and heat

reading poetry

and I stop

and I want to write

write specifically

“you don’t understand,”

but about what?

I don’t know.

I don’t understand either.

I’m just here

with my bare feet

on the concrete

and sweat down my back

like I’m doing something.

When I look at the mailman

stopping and starting

by my building

I think he has something

special for me

but I don’t know if

I want it

and I know his hands are

empty

anyway.

I think of all the time

I’ve wasted

staring at bottles

with a cigarette -

Diane is getting clean.

That’s nice.

There’s still a joy

waking up with your head

like a basement staircase

unstable and prone to collapse.

I don’t know.

I want to tell you,

“You don’t know,”

but I don’t know either.

Sometimes I smile

at the thought

idea

we’re stuck in the same

ghostly web

orbiting each other

maybe it makes me nervous too

and happy

and scared.

I don’t know.

Maybe you don’t know either.

Diane insists

my plays would go up in New York.

There’s no wind today.