At the laundromat off Guadalupe I find
out you are dead, my ear wet-ringed
to the cellphone. My load of darks spinning
in the dryer’s black hole hula-hoop.
When I find out you have died, I am playing
miniature golf with Jules. The only course
in Georgetown, Colorado. I cheat that
last hole-in-one, chuck the pocked ball
through that clown’s front teeth. I am reading
peacefully, Voigt’s Headwaters, in bed
when I get the call. At Shapiro’s Deli
I eat the best Rueben of my life
and you die mid-bite. I taste it. I won’t eat
sauerkraut anymore. I am at the bus stop.
I can’t tell if that man is whacking weeds
or metal-detecting. You didn’t die, then,
but I was waiting for you to. The truth is I’m
always waiting. Is that a field of dandelions
he is headed towards? No, they’re yellow
flags meant for marking gas lines.
This poem originally appeared in the Kenyon Review.
