what has it been, almost a decade? more. remember the heart attack I had on Fowler, Laura, seeing him on that bus stop bench? I drove by twice and breathed once we were home. I see them in the freezer section of the supermarket, turning in hooded sweatshirts only to smile with boy teeth. I see him in the park by the elementary school some afternoons, pushing a girl no bigger than seven on swingsets and see-saws, hovering.
I hover too, unproductive and waiting. What do I care of diamonds and poems and my mother? I have to remember that the sky is green. There cannot be a single truth if I have to remember them all. Don't listen to the radio while driving on ice and snow, distracting. Call me Dad. Go ahead, take. Pretty. Precocious. To a Nunnery I go for my intercourse deferred, how's that for mixed. Metaphor. Brown trees in the fucking snow. Standing at the edge of Niagara falls, nine. ten. new glasses. ten. almost the end.
That was quite a show, you said before I left.

So now what, writer? Now what?