Black Econoline

panel van

leaves the parking lot and

slowly crawling

scales my field of vision,

a fizzing squib of sunlight fixed

to the luggage rack

the pedestrian overpass hiccups.

In a building

made to break apart in sections

in case of an earthquake

a janitor

can’t pronounce the name I can’t remember

for the third, no,

wait a minute, fourth time.

Our agreement

lodged where you can’t find it

driving your windowless van on a stretch of unfinished

rural road:

no reduced speed ahead

highway signs

at least as far back as you remember.


to let on to this janitor,

and all the others like him.

The name he is looking right through me for

I finally realize isn’t

a name at all,

rather some antlered thing

from which neither of us will ever extricate himself.

The girl who’s off to the side buying some blonde fudge.

I want to know

who’s to say to no one

in particular

she doesn’t know my heart’s desire, and who will overhear.

When she approaches.

I don’t have to slow down here, do I?

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