I wish I had a friend
who wasn’t dead,
like Jill with her golden hair
and her slow ways
who comes over around 10
after I’ve taken the boys
to nursery school
to be with me
in that tiny courtyard
on Capitol Hill
to sit and pull the errant grasses
from between the unyielding bricks
and talk and talk forever
of nothing and everything
so that even time, at last
rolls over on its back
and is still.