I ask myself about Paulie who walked along
Brereton St., up and down the double yellow line,
said it was the only way he traveled,
said he was on the edge of the Earth,

I ask why my Step-Sister had to
write letters with no recipient to Paulie
of made up personal histories,
he left and never came back.

I ask about Carlene at the opposite platform
who said not 'Love' but 'a Love'
before she vanished.

I ask why I can never, ever, for two states now,
hold on to my left glove for more than a week,
I ask where to find the perfect cup of terrible coffee
to warm my left hand,

I ask about the Red Theater,
about that game we play called
'give it a name'
and I wonder if I'll ever be able to name anything,

I ask until atmospheric pressure is
oppressive with demands,
and it starts to rain.

All my questions hung,
a strand of prayer flags,
in the night blurred by wet pavement.