At Your Dekalb Farmers Market
Crazy place it’s not mine
A chance encounter
Such as you might have at the store
With the familiar librarian
Who expresses consternation
At being relegated to the cohort
Of the unrecognized

At school students encircle the teacher’s desk
And to a girl with oval face and full lips
How’s it going you good
Eyes askance no reply
Standoffish like that other guy
The teacher returns to me a sheet of yellow paper
Covered with my own inscriptions in red ball point
In the upper left an irregular box
Standfish
Dementia
There’s your song the teacher says

Tomorrow some stitches remain unstitched
Responsibilities and false enjambment
Indices of cost and unsettled weather
Counting steps to the turnstile
The looming canopy
The dark interior