Thursday, September 11, 2008


That was the one with Kincaid.
Bent over her milkshake at the Albuquerque.
A knitted white top with pink buttons
up to a pleat in her neck. Her name was Jenny.
Her small beagle never strayed
far from her chipped blue toenails. Kincaid
observed her from the cashier’s desk
and wondered if this was luck.
The little nose packed tight around the nostrils
and cheeks with no time for abuse.
They grappled with the idea of a couple
through Hell’s Kitchen. A Dixieland
Promenade like the Sweetheart’s Wrap
towards the street stalls on Broadway.
This was Kincaid’s last Summer Sunday
in Manhattan. He knew Jenny
wouldn’t come with him to London.
They took turns at leading, down to Bryant Park
and spent an hour reading. They walked back
to Kincaid’s and gave the dog
some water. Jenny put on her favorite CD,
and screamed the lyrics to Kincaid.
Her asked her once more. (What did he say?)
Once more. She stopped and tip-toed to Kincaid
and held him so tight he could smell her
in Piccadilly Circus.

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