Ten Questions For My Congressman

Why does the lake near Route 519 get so cold even in the middle of summer, so that my skin raises in protest, knowing fully well I will be there when it comes back down?

What can you do about the sun, which goes down behind the strip mall, mixing its luster with fast food signs, and the gas station attendants sneezing and smoking, looking up at it like discovering?

How can I make the sound that a car makes, in going over the bridge to my grandmother’s house, either to move a dresser or to celebrate another holiday?

Would you say the name of your friend, not knowing she was behind you, your lip getting caught in the wind, filling you with northern dust?

Am I still not tall enough to touch the top of the doorway at the supermarket as I get film developed, pictures I took without looking?

Can I really see church steeple from the next town over, or is that a water tower, and if so where does that water go?

Could you live in a place where your breath trails out behind you like the Metro-North longing to tip right into the Hudson?

When I stood outside of the municipal building, catching my breath, did I feel the sweat evaporate off of my body?

Who did I touch, making my way to the back of the restaurant to meet someone?

Should the rain sting my hand this way when I’ve rolled the window down to signal a turn?