"Knowing what you cannot do is a writer's second-best gift". Dedicated to Josephine Jacobsen & everyone I've loved & poets. I couldn't wait to get there My palms moist and heart rate up, face flush ruddy. Those around could sense my eagerness so much so... It elated them along with me. The train arrived with steam and noise. Laughter children and punctual adults leading following. A clock spins, but my bags are light, extensions. fresh stick of gum in my walk I talk to myself without a care. Employing a carrier to carry me there. He does with third rate conversation. I, however, am amused and attentive because, I am almost to you now. I am this close from smelling everything about your curvings. The way you correct me and brush it all away. You bring me in, and let me out with a convergence divine. When I arrived and inquired as to your absence? With a smile, dry eyes and plastic covered furniture They kindly said with a sigh "Why, you had died, dead." Then, surprisingly, your mother took my coat and bags and led me upstairs to your room. Everything perfectly still and unmoved. Pictures, energy, doodles, dried flowers. I sat on your bed and I laid back. To sleep, for the first time in forever.