From the Fishouse

You are my 5th Avenue
You are my 6th my 8th my Broadway
You are my grain of salt my steak
boiled baked and fried potatoes
my sweet corn on the cob
You are my border crossing
You are my trans-Atlantic flight
the long layover between London and Bilbao
You are my new pair of shoes
the blisters they give my feet
the sliced tomato in the fridge
the smell in the sheets
memory of your underwear drawer
the cool in my drink
humidity
You are the obituary on page A 17
the sliver of photograph falling
out of the folded-up letter I still
haven’t sent
You are radio static
You are the dream I had last night
the night before
I want tonight
You are the words
I wish I’d written
You are anticipation
the mistakes I’ve made
the worst decisions I’ve made
the moment I want to quit
You are the voice that says quit
You are the one for me
You two thousand miles away
You different languages spoken
You asleep right now while I write