He tells me
he can smell every astringent molecule
of the overgrown orange hedge flowers along Route 10.

During his lunch hour
in the crummy little postmodern park downtown,
he accepts the brown-headed cowbird,

the couple on a blanket sharing fries,
the decrepit island nation in the news again
as part of his physical body.

He says it’s okay
for me to doubt his bliss.
That’s part of the picture, he says, backlit and smoldering,

and thanks me for my contribution.