Missing Dr. Rosenblatt

(God takes a long time
to punish acts of pride)

I am at a kind of
poetry conference
and feeling honored
and free. On the screen
behind me projections
of poetry manuscripts
with words
as big as my face
exaggerate something
so familiar, endearing, habitual.

It takes place in a hospital
I recognize the hallways, know them well.
I used to work here.
In the corridor below me
I see the familar face of Dr. Rosenblatt,
who gave me a job
in the fuzzy New York days
when I didn't know
who my friends were.
I race down to meet him
and find it's a dimply-faced woman
from the far east who speaks broken English,
distressed because she is lost and
I can't help her.

I go out for lunch on Main Street,
the gathering place of litter. A large hamburger
concession truck happens by and no one is
waiting. I can't think of what to order and
by the time I stop stammering a crowd has gathered.
I wait my turn in the midst of hamburger fragrances.
I order a hamburger-no-a-cheesburger-and-do-you-have
fried-onions. The mean faced server turns away.

Then it's dark. I still smell meat but
the truck is gone. I'm alone and I realize that
for the first time, I slept standing up.