your artful display.


There's always something, he says.
Some reason why you never did anything
or why what you did didn't work.
Something you've forgotten about.
Something you manage to wallpaper over
until you meet again
and then it all comes flooding back.

I nod. You're right, I say.

But then I think of two men reading letters from themselves
and a blue horn in the corner of an empty room
and a song that you can't buy any more
the one about hooks and lines and sinkers

and I think, at least I had ice cream tonight.

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