white chevy

I don’t really understand

I’m not sure where I left

I’m in the middle of the street

I don’t talk, no I won’t forget

someone who never existed

is now a neighborhood ghost

the curb is lined with white chevys

an effect that has me almost

at an ending I predicted

but I keep reviewing and rewriting

the crows tell me it’s over

the seagulls just keep flying

the shoreline shivers and changes

Seymour, I won’t follow your pages

the space is positive most days

I tell them I’m a poet who stays

some things last a long time

sometimes I am finally fine

sometimes I feel him wrapped around me some things take a real long time