The moment that I am perpetually stuck in is this: “What’s the matter honey?”
Was I seven? I was lost, trying to navigate that small scale map of the mind.
“The museum is closing, everyone exit.” Ever compliant,
I left.
I walked back to the parking garage, I found my way back to the garage.
That was an accomplishment, was it not?
I think of you often, “What’s the matter honey?”
Your blond bouffant; rolling down the window, your red lips.
Sitting in the office of the car park, trying to swallow the offered soda, trying to accept the generosity of strangers. But I cannot.
Did I represent the seminal moment?
Lost, disinterest, reserve: all
is at an end.
Things fall apart. After all, Yeats said so. Then it must be true.
I am waiting. I am waiting for you kind woman.
What’s the matter honey? No one asks anymore.


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