I’m sorry, exhausted, except for funds.I wrote a check, the date October 18without the year, to Theresa Monrosefor a hundred dollars, I did not writethe amount longhand.My conversation with friendsis something like the way I wrote that checkwhen I try to tell what I owe them.I don’t get it right, I leave off years,the everyday debt made clear by sayingsomething like thank you,in a handwritten letter.Yes, I believe everyone’stime of day or night is different.I’m sure a poet I love,who demanded punctuality,never bounced a check.When he died, age 66,at the Altenburgerhof Hotel,he did not pay his bill.I guarantee the world will payfor his empty Zimmer a hundred years.I can’t get Siegfried’s Funeral March out of my ears.…
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The New Yorker (Digital) - 1 Issue, May 20, 2019