I lived in two houses, one apartment,
took notes on a cocktail napkin
and a record store receipt my salary
almost covered. I abandoned my longing
to be more serious, and grew out my hair.
Summer, I shaved to bury my mother,
mourned a full season on the couch,
television bright across shag carpet.
The train I rode around America
was empty; the country was half-empty,
like the zoo on Monday. I wept at the president,
threatened to barefoot across the border,
but in the end only rolled down the window
to wave at a stranger who looked familiar.