Stale tunnel afternoon. Black car ferries
young writer from grey grid block to cadmium
green cul-de-sac. Deep river in between,
hence the tunnel. An hour to waste.
March west. Plaza bagel place TV
yells Fox News as he destroys a sandwich
and kettle chips. Receives a text: “Hang on
for 20,” so he does, walking Bloomfield
like a roadie avoiding cables and wires
and cocktails. Finally to the house, ranch-style,
back door. Down to the basement where four
crack knuckles, then rocket into “Namesake,”
more potent than recorded. They talk, hours.
Scribe retreats too soon, heart simmering.