9th and Nicollet

All chairs face the window
onto the street when it rains. For a split

second, I forget why
I’m worried. It makes me anxious—

this forgetting. Then I remember: that death
thing. The when, where, and why

of it. No, that’s not it.
Can I walk the mile home without ruining

all that I’ve tried to iron
flat? Will I be able to pull that umbrella

from my pack in time? Will the laundry room
be empty tonight? What a relief.

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