by Artur Grabowski.
My friend is a contractor, so everything
he says is concrete. As hard as an emergenc
night shift, and as short as a thirty
year mortgage in quiet proximity
to other mortal creatures. Our frequent
arguments end in politely stubborn
disagreements over the nearest place
to park. See, you’ve got to be as close
to your front door as possible
in order to slip out of public
sight, right? I’m
a poet, by the way. It frequently so
happens that our hands fall
together on the leaves
the wind has left for us
on the path between the parcels.