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?