(27-28 October 1989) after Edgar Lee Masters

While I wash my hands in the men’s room of the library, a man eats an onion sandwich at the sink, a pile of plastic bags at his feet. His ear is covered with scabs. When I cross the bridge, I hear voices, or coughing. I cannot understand them. I would want to talk and cannot find my voice. I am afraid to approach. Their beds are graves in the dirt behind the trees.