Thanks to Mark the Jar Man
and also to the soda jerks
for the passage of life
through such houses.
pouring
and catching
both pain and wonder
like the haze of distance and the smell of beer.
I am a part of weather
now,
just ask the cancer
on my nose.
swains and molecular intricacy
bursting alive and confessing
to a cache of photographs,
a hidden cadre of fine gone gals.
feeling still young
and speculating
in a landscape of bedrooms,
a home that feels no different than health.
Thanks to fiction
and somewhere
for the hers and the now
for living through.
Thanks to the myriad of names
that carry
and KJ not looking back from the car door,
reappearing beside the East River, rich, owned, smiling at last.