this mess so deep

i've been collecting again, stacks
of receipts, statements, poems on
the back of paper towels, like

alley washed out, cadillac under carriage
house, i wonder if i'll meet you here or
at the place at the end of this street
when we're eighty, if we make it.

i can feel you but it makes no difference
your town, my town it's show tunes & nathan plus
fifty summer pounds, the art gig fell thru,
the next prototype is being formed
and no one in this place reminds me of you