Half a
lifetime in one
place more north than midwest,
still it’s the McIntosh apples
you crave.

28 years.

The weight
of his death, the
one who drove the U-Haul
truck for you, presses against your
lungs. Heart.

10 years.

Is this
the half you want
to be remembered for?
Empties removed, no need to be
replaced.

18 years (almost).

Counting
poems, runs, leaves
left on old elms in this
little city’s central park, this
one’s yours.

20 years (almost).

You can
call it northeast
corridor saudade, the
way you hold onto old New York
City

Subway
Metro cards just
hoping they won’t expire
before you return, ready to
stand clear

of the
closing doors. Get
ready for another
ride of your life. That ding dong chime
again.

Half a
lifetime living
a thousand miles from
the platform, the train, the gap, the
third rail.

28 years.

Even
if you did fly
back east this moment, would
there be any strangers left to
ride with?

This year!