When the flooding in the basement got worse
she slipped into a silly dress

and danced to The Best of Nirvana.
The way she fell on the divan, her

arms open — The best thing for stress —

you could have been some guy brought home
to read Confessions of an English Opium

Eater louder over Kurt’s guitars,

some guy who would spend the evening
cross-legged on a tatami mat,

listening for the words between the words.

Youth is wasted on the young
and wisdom on the old, you know that,

like the call of a rare, flightless bird.