New man up here, different dead wife. Maroon
blazer because it’s the last day of class
and he gets fidgety in darker colors.
Two pieces down re: grieving, dozens more
unwritten, plagues that stab sleep with brain knives.
There is an audience, not just the pupils
in oxfords before him, pens busy tracing
requiems in stale air, but wider. Brainier.
Literate media and sad sacks in Park Slope
who still can’t pry the gold bands from their mitts.
Go there, chase the venom. I’m bobbing on
the rust-dented A train, drowning in Nils
noodles on “Speakin’ Out.” Not ready for
“Borrowed Tune,” but who can be? Except you.