Arrowhead Lodge

where rumbling begins
a half-mile down the road
when someone is coming,
plenty of time to hide
and remain faceless

away from a world
of social-ists, telephones
and satellite dishes,
a spot where photo albums
are the only books of faces.


"Don't tell me," says Virginia. "You finally signed up."

I ask, "How could you tell?"

"The remorse," says Virginia. "You're not like Salinger any more."

I say, "I blew that a long time ago. He never blogged either, so far as we know."