in the self-help aisle of Barnes & Nolbe
I ask him where to find
a late-night bowl of mac-and-cheese
(the kind
that comes with powder), and he
looks somewhat confused and inquires
about the author’s name.
I try again: Okay, I say,
perhaps you’ll point me to a couple hours
of Autumn on a mountain porch, with sky
that’s punctuated by a rolling line
of balding heads
and wind-stripped birches where a nut-fat squirrel climbs
to whisper secrets with his scraping claws.
We have Twelve Rules for Life
he says, or Taking Control
of Diet, and asks me if
I’ve heard of Carol Dweck.
He’s old,
confused, I remind myself.
One last exasperated try: Surely you have forks
that slip through key-lime pie? The end-line of a poem? A shelf
of wooden knick-knacks
in a small-town antique shop?
Firm grapes?