The novelist tells me
that I missed out because
I was never fifteen and listening to Simon & Garfunkel’s Greatest Hits
as I fell asleep, dreaming
of America, of poor Julio
scamming down by the schoolyard.
I tell her that boys like me
had no use for Paul Simon once
he stole Princess Leia away from us,
a tiny Darth Vader, black helmets
on bookends.
She laughs and wipes her nose. The
vegetable soup I made is too spicy, there’s
too much pepper, but she laughs and
says it’s a good thing, I am a rock, I am an
island.