It isn’t his van
so not poetry and

spam, though bees
buzz in the memory

when driving by.
It is parked on blocks,

discarded seemingly,
where cooking smells

and grease shadows and
crumbs along sides

may still be there like
those words that filled

when read before.
And the list of what

to eat on outer walls
remind as well of what

once was – The Bees
Knees by the French

chef’s head logo door,
and miscue Snack Bar,

as signs of how lives are
beyond recall’s span.

[So I wrote the poem: context here]