We are guilty of thinking about ourselves
too much. If by we, I mean me, if by too much,
I mean all the time. If by guilty, I mean human.
Rain today, thin mist above the apartments
across the street that mar my view of the park,
the unruly green hair of trees reaching above
the mismatched shingles. And how are you
this fine morning? Have you thought of me yet,
looking out on the wet spot where your silver car
once sat nights you spent here? Forgive me
for counting them up, storing them
to keep the pavement of memory dry.
I aced the test by cheating. I held you only
to keep myself warm. This is where you enter
to tell me the X-rays were normal,
that the building’s coming down.