I get asked to be on a podcast and he’s never read any of my poems, ever, doesn’t even know my name, asks me, “So, what’s your name?” as if this is a thoughtful question, and I wonder how much research he’d have had to do to find out my name, especially when we’ve already exchanged multiple emails, and he says, “So, what are you?  A poet?  A fiction writer?”  And I realize he’s going to ask me my height next and weight after that and maybe we’ll get into sports and weather in a bit, and I realize how much I ache to have a person who just simply sees me, how I was just on an elevator yesterday with two people, one on my left and one on my right, and how they talked through me, as if I am a ghost, and I get ready for the podcast host to ask me if I’m a phantom and I get myself ready to say, “I don’t know.  I might be.  I feel like I’m fading.”  And I remember seeing an interview with Norm Macdonald when it was nearing the end of his life and no one knew it was nearing the end of his life, except him and a few other very select people, and it feels like that for me, like I’m near the end, and when I write, sometimes I think, “Is this my last poem?”  And I remember talking to Donald...