the bowling center
where a kingpin once stood
among the Whitney hotel
or in the dusty Kerouac motel
with its panels of wood
he tried again to do something he once could
which was never writing poetry

The leaves are brown
I drive along the highway
My mind focuses on the pond aside me
Evoking a feeling of worry
Drowning, opaque,
Obscuring the unknown
In the wind
Nothing but silence
Gentle melancholy

i cannot breathe
out of my nose
one must think
of all the times
I could