There is a place

There is a place,

under the porch where the rattlesnakes are snoring

with one eye open, the other one hungry.

  There is a time,

when the lush day-damp dissipates into a certain thinness

of corduroy dreams pushed up against unpainted walls.

  There is a place,

where the shadows have darker shadows

and light is the unwelcome uncle, drunk before drinks.

  There is a time,

after 1963, when the streetlamps meant something

more than the start of a restless evening.

  There is a place,

where rye ‘n water and pickled herring and asparagus spears

shared secrets to little boys of parent parties.

  There is a time,

sandwiched somewhere between lunch money and

shit wine in a coffee cup when dime-store dreams were enough.

  There is a place,

of a certain ripe solitude, a kind of naked jamboree

when conversation stalls but silence takes over.

There is a place. It was not then.

There is a time. It was here.

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