I also have to write to my friend Jane, who sent me a lovely e-mail this week. Jane and I met when we were both teaching at that high school in North Jersey: when we were young, Jane, remember? –– and didn’t really know what we were doing. When we were constantly improvising and wanting just to run away all the time. I still sort of feel like that. Or maybe I’ve just gotten better at it all. But I’ve started running again (this is not a metaphor). But only half-heartedly when I am in the mood.
Jane sends me links to Coachella acts to listen to. She is always looking out for me, Jane is.
She wrote: “I love the way you punctuate. There’s such freedom in the spaces.” (Is this a metaphor, Jane?) It was such a lovely line in itself. Yes, we used to write lesson plans together, Jane. There was an art in that, too; just another unappreciated craft that will never sell on Etsy.
Anyway, Jane; until I get a chance to write you back properly…
[Here starts the poem, if it is that.]
Jane, darling,
Do you remember
a mix CD you
sent me in London?
I still listen to
it sometimes
when I have been out
thinking too much––
and who does it
profit, these thoughts?
The Black Keys are our
age, you write, saying
you feel unaccomplished
in comparison.
Still, it’s true:
today the cool-warmth on
stepping out of the campus
center; young undergrads
in bloom––smiling, sandaled;
the barista at Starbucks
whose eyes percolate;
that veggie burger on rye
with blue chips I foraged for
myself at lunch;
at a different campus, the sun
setting itself to work on the walk;
on desire lines two others
might have traced
through the grass.
What were we
saying again, my friend;
Jane?
rarlington 
“desire lines”! you’ve been saving that for a while!