7:30 a.m.
Thursday was garbage day
And she always forgot.
These mornings were frantic,
Racing to beat the truck.
Cursing, she dragged the can,
One slipper falling behind,
Every time.
She hated Thursdays, accordingly,
But also because it was his busy day
And he never had time
For phone calls with her.
Tape
He had countless amounts of tape.
Cassette, eight-track, VHS, Beta
Masking, gaffer's, Scotch
Reel to reel (in various widths and colors)
Plumber's, boxer's, ticker
Clear, satin, magic, magnetic
–double sided–
And still,
Nothing seemed to stick.
Wick + Flint
He couldn't bring himself to stop smoking.
Mostly because he loved his lighter,
A cheap Ronson ladies' lighter from the Fifties.
It was silver, with leaves on it,
And it had a twin,
Which he had given as a gift
To the only other good writer
In a city filled with those
Who imagined they knew what a pen is for.
#infnity
He had a clear memory
Of the first time he'd tasted butterscotch
And fennel, and wine, and cornbread.
He could recall his first snow sledding
The first Bob Dylan song he'd heard,
And the first time he'd smelled horseshit.
But when asked to describe the last time he'd felt fear
Or the last cigarette he'd smoked
Or the last time he'd tasted honey,
His mind when white with immemory,
Though the odds were high
That they'd all occurred the day before.
