I sit in the Judith Merrill
sci-fi
reading room reading
Philip K. Dick
but I can't stop
thinking about Spalding Grey
pulled
from the East River, identified
from dental records.
I travel
two months back in time
to that Staten Island Ferry
the railing cold
beneath my bare hands.
He seems depressed
but so am I, his sadness
gives me courage.
I do most of the talking.
He nods, smiles and never meets
my eye.
New York City, vast
mysterious, holds his gaze.
I like winter, he says.
The best science fiction always ends
on a sad note.
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