
now everyone’s a critic
old buddhist monk
the gift of silence
in his eyes
alphabetizing
all my spices
the new normal
tattooed barista making a swan in my latte
home from college
the hair on
my son’s arms
bridge of sighs
let’s be in this exact spot
in ten years
Brooklyn Heights
the accent of
a bagel seller
under an umbrella
the lovers make up
their own game
taking the field
he plucks some clover
and tucks it in his mitt
I hold the old ball
how he did
my hand as large now
empty seat
who will watch
with me
in the upper deck
three old men
look to the heavens
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