For Gus Blaisdell, Sort Of by Carl Mayfield

Glasses are no help
when I’m looking for you.
Eating today where the sidewalk
meets the Frontier Café
I am reminded
how a cinnamon roll
can be a time machine.

Unsad, reading what
passes for language,
I think of you, Gus,
think of your voice,
not exactly booming
but not timid either.

Your presence balanced
with your absence
beckons, but no contact.
Mired in consciousness,
how can I keep up with you?
No matter–I never could anyway.
Now that you’ve dropped
your shoe size and your name,
any chance we could be pals?

Carl Mayfield’s most recent chapbooks are All the Way Up and High Desert Cameos. Lacking the decency to be discouraged, he pushes on.

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