I take a credit card
from my wife’s pocketbook
take her car keys also
and leave the house.

Somewhere along the block
Faure’s Requiem plays loudly from an open window
as a man pulling two badly bred dogs goes by
bent over to one side as though experiencing a personal gale.

Driving to the stop sign I’m having an instant of everything
that’s to say one of those moments when connections
both past and present, coagulate
and then, paradoxically, diminish.

On Cherry Avenue, decelerating
I’m overwhelmed, almost sobbing.
Where is it that I’m going on this New York night
grown cold enough to kill snakes?