Whether or not I press play, the tape 

rattles on; some days, I just hear it in my mind—

wandering about by the side of the road, looking, out, out,

for a nice place to sit down and witness the reservoir’s slow 

metamorphosis into sludge.

Other days? No. Other days, I pull out 

The tape recorder with its flimsy

Plastic wheels that spin

With wild disregard for instruction,

Set it on the table, turn out the lights. I notice 

the bathroom light is still on. I can’t be bothered to get up. There’s me

And the box of projected light and the stagnant air that comes with empty rooms. 

 

I press play. A man is speaking, with an older voice than mine.

He says that he is going to share a poem about his father. 

“My father… he wasn’t a difficult man, he just was remote in many ways. 

I don’t know why; I don’t think he could do anything about it. 

One thing he liked to do… 

He’d come in for lunch and close off all the curtains and all the light

And just sort of lay there in the darkness and listen to music, classical music usually. And when I’d come in he’d just sorta tell me to leave. 

‘This is my time to be alone kid, get outta here.’” 

 

He rambled through his memories like this 

for some time, and

it became apparent that at some point he had transitioned into the poem, but

 

I didn’t know where the beginnings and endings of the dream were. There were

faces projected into the darkness:

 

The tired smile of a checkout clerk I met in a poorly placed coffee shop

off the side of I-95. It was past 1 in the morning. I know I had needed to get somewhere, 

and somewhere fast, 

 

But I can’t make out the details now. 

 

The young woman behind the counter was handing me my coffee

There was someone else in the store, 

And she had a gun, and my first thought was 

how down on your luck must you be to try to rob this store?

And my second thought was 

I suppose this is it, this is the end of my life, a witness to a crime 

that would reward 50 bucks. My third thought was 

why is my jacket wet?

 

I saw then that this other woman had fired the gun

at the checkout clerk. The clerk went slack. Dropped the cup. Spilled the coffee on me

 

As she hit the ground dead. The woman with the gun looked at me. Her eyes 

Were sort of puke colored. She was opening her mouth, but there wasn’t a story to find. 

 

I left. Quickly, I mean, I guess I worry about dead strangers

sometimes. I mean, sometimes on long drives I wonder what her voice sounded like.

I mean, she must have said something to me, like “here’s your coffee” or “good evening” or 

“get outta here,” but I’ve started to realize I’ll never really know. 

 

The poet’s voice continues, “I think that Martin Plunkett has led a more interesting life than I, and it will be certainly reflected 

 

In his early death. But he won’t care. That’s one thing none of my students ever learned from me. None of them take care of themselves. 

 

They read that romantic poetry and they really believe it. For all I know it’s true: that’s how you really find your poems, in cafes and sinking ships… cemeteries.” The tape cuts. 

 

Somewhere along the way, the poetry was lost. I don’t know Martin Plunkett. I lay my head against the table, reach feebly for the machine, press record. I conjure up a letter

Addressed to the dead man living out his life on repeat

Inside of the coiled plastic dream: “Once, 

 

on the night of Ozzy Ozbourne’s death, we found a dead butterfly, sat in the grass, and looked up at the sky. Remember? I told you the starlight made me feel like I’d live forever. You nodded, 

 

Or at least I thought you did—it was dark—and said that for you it felt like you were close 

To death. The sound of crickets whirred about us, and I thought of all the people 

 

I have tried to save from themselves. You told me that before he died David Bowie called each of his friends for hours and asked them how they were doing. He didn’t tell them he was dying

 

Then he died. Sometimes a goodbye becomes a goodbye 

Only after they’re gone. Crickets. ‘Tragedy clings desperately to old poets like a tattered

 

Shawl’ you said. I paused for a long time. Here is what I didn’t tell you then. I’ve been here before. It was years ago, and I saw what I see now:

 

A bright light and the universe coalescing around me, but I can’t remember who I was with or what we talked about.”