Unthinkable,
but here I am 
thinking of it.

Could I put this into
second person, put it
at a cool remove and thus

deny it a bit? Unthinkable,
but there you are now
in this, thinking of it.

Now we two turn our faces
to the third person in here
with us — unthinkable?

There they are, looking
at what’s on the table — 
the bottle, the pills,

the long screed that 
explains without
explanation. You and I

and them, of course. 
It’s unthinkable to be
dispassionate. So

why aren’t any of us
bereft, or trembling?
You start. No, you.

Maybe it should be me.
You go, and take them with you.
Unthinkable to be accompanied

on the way, I think. I’ll
think of you when I go.
Yes, I promise. Now,

close the door, I think,
on the way out. Unthinkable
things require solitude

and it feels so crowded
in here, I can’t even
approach the table. 

Whipped cream cheese
and peanut butter
on white bread —

damn, can you believe it?
An old man
stuffing this into

his ruined face
as if it hasn’t already
killed him over time —

breaking down his
diabetic self into 
sugar and failure — 

This food of course
is mostly failure
and self-damage — 

and so not adult 
if that means
anything for someone

like this — eating 
himself toward death
with bread wet with tears

But it tastes good
Might as well die 
emmeshed in pretense

as he’s lived
Having it and eating it
too as if his happiness

makes it alright
to die with his face
smeared and his belly full

of whipped cream cheese
peanut butter white bread
and old sugar tears

You can see
this road has signs
but they just read
“AHEAD”
or “STAY STRAIGHT”
or “NEXT LEFT”

and they don’t
tell you anything

They were all painted 
by people on this side
who’ve never been there
and are likely uninformed
since no one has been confirmed
to have returned
with a solid report. 

Why you didn’t
notice this earlier
is unclear but you really
had no choice but to drive,
so you drove.  

When you get to
that left, if there is a left,
take it. You’ll find
it loops back and rejoins
the main road
and there before you,
the next sign.

Ahead?
Stay straight?

Drive, beloved.

It’s not like
you can stop out here
where there’s nothing.
It’s not like
you are willing
to learn
what will happen
if you do.

There, the edge:
mere steps away,
almost directly
below my feet. 

Wouldn’t take much
to decide and then to act — 
to fly, or to fall.

I sit down
to hold myself here,
at least for now.

Such a sunset.
So worth seeing from here:
a promise
of a good, hot night ahead

made sweeter because
I’m looking over
that edge. 

Just for once imagine
that red was out there

as if you did not know
what red was

and you would have to 
invent it to describe

the chirp of some 
unseen red bird

or the glimpsed lining in
an open human mouth

Hints of open flame
and embers

and of course most unseen
a racing heart

Wouldn’t you say
what you see

would be as red
as all of those and

in spite of any lack
of precedent would you not

know at once 
that this sound is red

Who truly needs to hear from me?
No one, not even my friends. Surely
they hear enough of my squawk
in the day to day.  No one,
not even my enemies.  There’s nothing
they could use against me; the talk
is empty. No one in my family,
no one at my job, no neighbors.
I spew a simple stew of garbage;
the scent even makes others stop
their ears as well as their noses. 
If I had a love, they’d want me
dead quiet, I’m sure. If I had a child,
Dad would be a dirty word; my voice
would be a dirty wind. No one 
wants to, ought to hear from me
until I learn to wash my sins
from my throat and that means
stripping them from my gut
and lungs, never mind my heart,
before I approach the world again
with a song or even a single word. 

Waiting at the old station
for bus, train, or shuttle;
no longer sure which one. 

Voice in the air, gender
and age uncertain:
“You missed the early ride

but the late one’s still on schedule.”
I’m sixty-three and have little time
to wait, I suspect, for that ride.

I have been here before
and I’ve always left the station
under my own power before riding.

Maybe not this time. Maybe 
I’ll take whatever comes for me
with a smile.  Right now, though,

I’m a mess. I’ve got one foot
toward the road away, one 
toward the road back. 

Choice is what’s left,
all that’s left. I hear my ride. 
It’s time.  

Small gang
of starlings
chittering out there.

Cat loafed
and listening
in here. 

She’s not moving
but head’s up. I can tell
she is on standby. For what?

In her life no bird
has ever flown in here
and she does not

go outside. Every now 
and then she charges
when one lands

on the feeder closest to 
the window and she
is foiled again. 

I don’t know 
what the starlings think
about her but they

keep coming
near the window
she keeps charging.

The cat’s now pretending
to sleep. I don’t think
the birds are pretending

to anything but I
don’t know,
of course.

Since I’m up with them
as always, I am pretending 
to be at peace with not-knowing.

Whether for hope or habit,
game or hunger, instinct  
or amusement, we all do this

every morning
we can. It’s what we do.
It’s all we do. 

An old man passes by
in the supermarket
with his mouth open
neither smile nor frown
breathing not that hard
but hard enough to notice

Right behind him
a child follows her young father
adoring him and asking
for grilled cheese when they get home

He tells her he’ll do it
They’ll do it the right way
where he puts the butter on the bread
and puts it in the oven
It takes longer but
it’s the best

She says Daddy I know that
Everyone knows that 

The little girl is serious
Her dad is just too busy 
to acknowledge 
That old man’s oblivious
All I have to add
is my unnoticed smile
as I remember I’m going to die someday
and toss bread and cheese into my cart
It’s not going to happen
before I find out
if the dad and his daughter
are telling the truth
Don’t want to end up
like that old man
never having a chance 
to be part of everyone 
before that happens