To Rod Moody-Corbett

I smell ozone in the air.
The parking lot is full of cars.
The soccer players return from their game.
I have not written poetry for a long time.

Today was a strange day:
I went to the bank.
I had an argument with my future wife about nothing.
I helped you look for your keys and fed you tea that was too hot.

      Somewhere in between—

      I misremembered something from Gatsby;
      You half-recalled a line from "Prufrock";
      You spoke fondly and sadly of Cheever;
      I remembered Ginsberg in line at the bookstore.

I made a bad joke about your hair.
We drove.
The smooth and treacherous Crowchild ran.
It began to rain.

I dropped you off and went home
thinking of the fine filigree of your soul
and the last line of the poem
which is this.