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Apparition Street 
A response to Mary Ruefle’s
collection Apparition Hill
We — I spend too much time by myself so when I say
“we”
I mean the both of us — lost our youthful face to a scowl, and
this is not a result of forgetting to take out the trash —
rotting hot dog, corn cobs and husks, cigarette butts and drafts of an
illegitimate poem — trash that is picked-up only on Thursdays. As
we were saying, our densely populated street has no lawns — no
place for trashcans — and on Wednesday we forgot to take out the
trash because we were occupied with wasting time; and this was long
before we had thought to forgive.
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