Help comes (hope so) in a way, & I help need a way in a
please-frayed need. From glum I come, from the in & up
of giving. It’s what my emotionals are asking for—Help.
Honk. On honk no stoned, coned Chihuahua. But here, hi,
have a taste of. Hot, they Choco Taco, retail pretzel, from
nonpareil to nonchalant fresh hoagie 1/2s down the street.
Down the treats without the memory (a hoax?) of ever tast-
ing them; you tasted them. Life alike a lake-strange lake, a
where & their thereafter. Wawa’s ATM, my local Titicaca.
Hovering the river, orange of graffiti beneath the Walnut
Street Bridge, a hint: “DO IT FOR” & then after a pause,
an I-beam, who in the reading sees: “THE FAT LADY”—
In a haze & out of it, but still able to fill a ladle, to lift a liq-
uid. As the fertile’ll fill a ladle (for a fee: a pen). But is this
just the Delaware & Schuylkill, or my Tigris & Euphrates?
Halo Philadelphia, Radiohead probably isn’t the healthiest
to earbud up right now, but the doorbells of sunset & every-
one pic-posting Facebook with pumpkin-kid-patch cuteness.
Here. To (bridge) the hole, to edit lonely into lovely, to hike
the melancholy lollipop & lick along the latitude of its juice
& its longitude for a guide, for how to head toward healing.