Howie Good is a journalism professor at SUNY New Paltz and a lifelong Met fan.
Note to My Roommate
I found the spoon you took
from the college cafeteria.
The handle had been bent,
the bottom scorched.
I was seventeen,
and there were only ever
in the incoherent rage
of the night surf at Thieves Bay.
I study my reflection in the window of the butcher. The trains that leave the city empty return empty as well. Does the sound of sobbing mean what I think it does? People who were born here exchange knowing glances. Tomorrow’s
paper may carry news of a terrible accident. For now, it’s night and raining, and somewhere lovers are blowing smoke rings into the dark.