I notice
a dead spot when I meet a face known so intensely
years ago. The windmill at St. Pete’s, the
crossroads and grid, god-damned chickadees massed
like avengers over the graveyard path. Back and
to the right, the junkyard, sweet
enough for me in ’98 or so, my
outdoor office there.
By dead I mean I mean looked-out (maybe lucked out)--something so burned into perception that I shy away from more of it.
Idea attributed to F.G. Lorca, who pinned
a version to his door:
book a sheet of curling
for
those who had never curled,
never
split the house,
never
hit.
Lorca
showed up in time to join
old-timers
hockey in Leroy
Tuesday
and Friday mornings in Leroy
10:00
for an hour and half
because
the ice here’s no good.
Everybody
behaves himself?
Oh, you betcha.
We all know each other.
Where I walked, I'd walked before.