South side coffee shop, Minneapolis, fall 2023.
The poet in a cafe over cold coffee.
A turkey sandwich sits, perched, stares past the window glass
onto the intersection, Nicollet and 37th Street in South
Minneapolis.
And, he wonders, did I blink.
Wonders why he blinks.
If something is missed.
Not here.
Mid blink.
It's just cliche.
The poet's body of work will fail.
Instead, the green paint keeps his eyes
open to buildings over there.
Were they always so green?
The poet imagines color, gray, orange, yellow,
billows of blue tarp, maybe scaffold rusted,
wrapped around an echo.
Another mouthful.
He forces a blink.
A poet returns his gaze.
Deeper lines than before.
Coffee colder than it was time gathered in a cup.
How long has he been.
Not right here, but here.
As his mother rings.
His phone on silent.
This poem isn't grief.