I figured you
would know how.
You were always
riding in cars.

Willow trees,
low shoebox
retail stores,
telephone wires—

nothing gets
by you—
what people say
about where they live,

how it’s the water
you hear when you look
at the city
from the shore.

I imagine you
in a hat—
never bare-headed—
long sleeves.

I wanted to ask you
how to stop
being clever,
how to listen,

how to write
what you want,
how to decide
what to want.

I imagined you
might tell me
if we walked
far enough

along the shore,
in the shade
of our hats,
looking inland.

JT Kelly works in real estate in Indianapolis. Poems in The Denver Quarterly, Bad Lilies, the nu review, elsewhere. Chapbooks: Like Now (CCCP/Subpress, 2023), More of How to Read the Bible (above/ground, 2025).