To Mo Cohen

by Tony Towle

If there were a place called Kafka Park,
it would likely be a modest parking lot
in a wilderness, in the Klondike,
with empty brick buildings on three sides,
and intrepid weeds sprouting here and there
at the edges of the asphalt, and with a lone car
in the far lefthand corner; it has never
been driven anywhere interesting, so it thinks,
but that is about to change.