The paper’s named the pill that put the knife
in the millionaire’s hand and nobody’s
wiser. The blown-up dead from Kabul to
Kirkuk are known here as news and done with.
Whose dad bled to death in a buttoned shirt?
Fine. Listen to car engines idle in
the Starbucks drive-through, wondering again
how a whole season has passed without a
call from your kid, what wrench you need to fix
the busted washer back home, how any
number of years seems to pass in a day.
Answers worth knowing don’t wait for you like
the sea. Oh look. The trucked-in trees abide
their concrete plots in the lot at Paddock
Mall. They belly up to bus fumes between
the Dollar Store and Dillard’s. They beckon.