((Because my biggest fan nearly cried when he read it, and what is a poet if not an exhibitionist?))

His house had the longest hallway you’ve ever seen,
which may have something to do with his honesty
in heart overlappings, the running start and leaping
into necessity’s cotton hand and the under-sweeping
arm of “not supposed to” or “supposed to but just won’t.”
It’s twenty degrees below typical and about to rain
this fourth day, and yes, I think of his outside-slipping
wink, no shirt, but smile behind backs—even laughing
when drops erase the purpose of these lines, when
a little boy knocks an abandoned tennis ball out into
the Hudson with his steel bat and want to impress. Yes,
I’m still stuck in the space between cloth and hair, his
willingness to laugh louder when attempts to endear
fail and he falls up the third set of steps. A more
romanticized “living for Friday,” because France is so
far, and he reads as a collector of new flavors.

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