After lunch I talked publication —

not mine — with an editor,

then listened to a poet panel

make poetry sound very hard.
Reluctant raindrops slimed the pavements,

left pedestrians morose and damp.

The city, in the humid dusk,

a jumble of high-rising tombstones,

each wilted crane a single stem

left for remembrance.
I did not to stay to hear

the visiting world-famous futurist

for whose talk I had a ticket.

There are scary sounds in cemeteries at night.