On the railroad trestles all over the city is all kinds of graffiti, which inspired me to write a poem: “On a railroad trestle, / Idle words, spray-painted, like falling leaves / Forgotten by guitar.”

Rain puddles make excellent calculators. Indeed, the square root of blue equals eleven triangles. This fact has weight, like the atmosphere. Which we hardly notice. And we should.

On my walks, I am glad to see someone I know. I ask, “How you doing? Everything well? I add, “Glad to see you.” And I mean it. But more often than not, when I am out walking, I’m alone. I like the mornings best. I like Walt Whitman and Federico Fellini. I also like to walk along the Niagara River and to stop and sit and pay attention to the birds. I like to nose around the old industrial sites and look up at the old factory panes or what’s left of them. They look like they haven’t brushed their teeth in four decades and have been chewing on bolts. I enjoy it when the orchestra brings out the percussionist. 

Ahab was a whale. Who became a bird. A singsong hatred that drained the oceans. And took flight over the leas. The moon was a pedestrian. Who became a rucksack. Logged all the throes: a genius of throes: and covered in tattoos of all the famous mountain ranges of America. Gregory Peck was an actor. Who became Ahab. A cinema of life and a trilogy of moons. Above our heads we heard the longing step across the sky, wooden leg and all. In a flight that resembles a parade. In which all the children sport mountain-colored mustaches and wingspans of verse.

You drew a triangle on your napkin. How thoughtful. The rain will help. I can answer your questions. Though I am not sure of the answers myself. This triangle, for example, has three sides: but where are the doors?  The clouds should be pretty and a mess and if you include them on your napkin, barometrically accurate. Here, look, I drew a picture of a bird on a branch. You said, the clouds are all messed up looking without being messed up at all. That’s perfect. That’s it! Let’s exchange middle names and bury our pocket change under the old telephone booth.