What familiarity! The house with
cigarette butts between the sidewalk
and the street. The NO PARKING
sign next to the breakfast place
next to the coffee place next to
the bar. There are orange signs
ROAD WORK other places
as usual. The fish is good. The
fish wriggle under a layer of
ice. There are bones on my
plate. And I remember the
roads, where I sat in the saddle
peddling from pain to pain
on my way to spread those
ashes in an otherwise in-
accessible frozen section
of swamp. This is where
I learned to write poems
instead of memos.
Roman Ryan 