te echo de menos (for nell, for hell, even though the three of us have never met)

how can this be a poem
if you already know where you are?
I search for you
more than I seek to learn about

from Long Island
to Louisville,
but I don't believe

I am up in the know,
by my lonesome,
ginning up
in the half room of my blues;
what's being sold are stories.