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  • As I turned the corner to your street there was a different season resident.
    Roadside green.
    Trees in small insignificant budding.
    Rain .
    The swoosh of morning traffic sounding the path to your
    always impeccable doorway.

    I left you theolonius monk eno fripp oummou sangare
    & an esoteric little book written by a Nobel Prize Laureate
    compared to Kafka.
    There were existential overtones in the
    little package I
    slid through the mail slot in your door.

    I saw a peak of gold light in the stairwell.

    I remembered a time when I
    was welcome here.

    I drove around the corner to turn up Anza Street trying to make it over the bridge
    before the storm worsened and as I turned the corner
    there it was.

    I used lie in your bed in the morning
    pull away the curtain and gaze out at it,
    you would be making me coffee
    in your little French espresso pot that spattered
    coffee all over your stove and would hiss at you like a mad cat
    over the radio playing NPR and the rattle of dishes in your sink.

    the clink clank of wine glasses.

    You would bring me a cup with milk in a coffee mug that once belonged to your mother
    the white ones with the funny 50’s atomic motif and I would place the mug on the sill and sip it slowly
    laying on my stomach.
    alone in your room.

    You busied your self with your morning ablutions
    as the morning sun
    Illuminated the
    blue minaret.
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