Rise up, you electric heat on an October night.
I lean upon the lintel of your entryway.
My hand spreads the blanket and waters the nameless plants for you.
Rise up, my friend, you who are sick with the weight of your soul,
break through the shell.
We who never do have cooked for you.
We who never do have wrapped a gift for you.
An old record and a broken needle await you
Who have etched old songs deep in your wax.
We have found blankets for you, and pillows too.
We will do the dishes tomorrow.
We drove herds of books together for you.
We filled your cup with red wine
(that, at least, has not changed).
We set out cantaloupe and salt on paper plates.
We knock at your too-full apartment and listen at the door.
We are late and growing later,
but will wait, patiently, a little more.