Peter Kahn


the weather, the waving
sun, the clouds parking
parallel, polluting
blue with exhaust.
Blame the Rainbo
Club, the Silver Cloud,
the Star Bar—still open,
standing still like a snap
shot. Blame the corner
florist, the Humboldt Pie,
the Polish coffee shop—
vacant shells, waving
grave markers. Blame
memory for the crowd it keeps.
For not letting go. Blame
amnesia for never visiting.
Blame time
for slogging like quick
sand in the hour glass when
you need it light-speed. Blame
it for not healing fast enough.
Blame God for miracles—
Becky Reagan inviting you
to the ice rink in fourth grade.
Alicia calling from O’Hare instead
of Kenya after only six year-weeks.
Lauren inviting you for coffee
three months after she broke up.
Blame God for closing the tap
three years and counting.
Blame the tide
for always coming in.
Blame the ocean for the waves,
the crash, the calm, the crash,
the get back up.


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