any better than I know the raven
from the lark. I thought I knew the day once,
before it turned dark. And then it was called something else,
separate from itself. Sometimes it was a gangster

from an old movie, or one you read about. Sometimes
it was a prankster who turned into a lout. They try
to be the superhero until their clothes come off. They
want to get their name on the marquee studded with ginseng
and marlin. Though some fall short with trout. They take

pictures. So, I know they work out. Their biceps have
their own address. But my guess is it’s on a residential street
in a gated community. They’ll end up in a Doonesbury comic
book I’ll read and likely write about. And I can’t say

I know you any better than I know them. But the mystery
is such a tease, like pulling tangles out of my hair. It’s easier when
its wet than when its dry. Though I’ve worked with both. I joke it
down with a glass of wry and a twist of rue when I’m the mood,
a heartfelt pinch of cayenne. OK. Enough. Goodbye.