Saturday, August 26, 2006


He says, has two syllables
cam . ra.
Sure, she says,
like "terrorist,"
tair . rist.
She probably deserves
that poke in the ribs.

at the same light
in Chinatown
for the last half hour
they’ve already revised
their desire to live in the city

And on NPR
an old couple
is described as having been married so long
that they complete each other’s sentences.

In the car,
they test themselves:
He suspends:
When I wake up in the morning
the first thing I want to do is…
And she ends:
Call someone dickweed.

Their mirth freed;
the whoops and hand jives
they counterfeit
are almost as much fun
as the real hug and kiss
that linger like ink stains
and memory.

Turns out, the old lady on the radio
is in Lebanon

and talking about how
Israeli soldiers lent her
their cell phone to call
her grown-up son in Melbourne
because she was worried about him.

Too many things about the radio story
make her want to cry.
Coming as it does
on top of a morning spent
dragging her feet
at the Intrepid Museum

it leaves her feeling
like she doesn't belong
in the world,
and he will stumble upon her
asleep in sudden, odd places
for the rest of the day.

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