Middle America

On a Tuesday holiday, when Ocean Parkway is a burst of yellow, and throughout the better borough, lines of voters wrap around the block, I feel close to a new America. I am generous, giving away all the things I don't like. The kitchen cabinets look crowded, but if we have every imaginable spice and seasoning, it's only because I can't imagine all that many. There's a stack of newspapers on the floor. I didn't buy those papers, I took them from the recycling bin in the office. I take a chair around the apartment, watering the plants on high shelves. There is Dylan and Didion. In one weekend we watched "Henry Poole Is Here" and "I've loved you so long." The movies seem an allowable expense, for we are both employed. Your bicycle, a Scalpel, with only one fork, is white and reminds me too much of the ghost bikes tied with garlands of flowers to signposts on street corners. The bookshelves, in turn, are black and sagging, but they're still standing. I'm writing, wrapped in a blanket, in a sunspot on the couch. Later guests will come, or we will go to the Botanic Garden, because it's free on Tuesdays. It closes at dusk; dusk comes too early. In the bedroom, Frog dozes. It's like we have a dog, except we don't. It's only Frog, he never says anything until we say it for him. We have several shoeboxes of undeveloped film, and I'm still trying to wear out all the shoes, and use up all the stationery, with which I left home.