Shades drawn, I used to figure them all
for the beach, the rich out east,
grazing on small plates 
accompanied by sour wine
that cost as if it ought to taste good. 
The young still in bed with one other
heedless of time
long as they make it to the door
while their GrubHub’s a little warm.
I don’t begrudge such small pleasures here
in this town that feels like desperation.

I take the usual route,
down my street, up toward the north--
the direction the rain arrives--
so I might meet it first
and hope the heat breaks over my body. 
I cut off at the ladder that runs
up the Highlands--
not a soul at the church beside,
not even Merton’s ghost--
he played nearby as a kid
and, according to lore, 
never seemed completely settled. 
Past the last wooded lot in town,
which, if I stop a moment, 
emits a sound that’s somewhere
between what’s shrill and holy,
only the dogs attend. 

At the drug store, 
while I await my meds
a guy stops in for Lottery.
Seems to know his numbers by heart
and I stare too hard, perhaps,
happy to see anyone
so certain and possessed.
Any luck? I ask, 
but he pulls his mask one notch
tighter round his mouth,
and clenches his jaw
as if to say to the clerk, 
Who is this jerk?
I’m glad to see what might be done
with only wit and memory. 
I like this guy--reminds me of me--
and avert a stare to assure him, 
at least this once, with soft, forgiving eyes
I won’t make off with his winnings
or the purloined love of his family. 

I say, Sorry, Bud, for the bother,
as if we never met before,
and promise we’ll never speak again,
as if he weren’t my own brother.