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And maybe if this man uses more fingers right now, you believe mark caldwell it is possible to get there, that blissful place where wanton fucking is supposed to get you. Within striking distance of love, you want to believe. Instead, screwing the cap on the tube of KY, this man tells you how, mark caldwell leaning over the brown sofa, he had fucked a Colombian architect who no longer replies to his poetic e-mails. Now, there’s an oxymoron, you think—poetry and e-mail. Then the man suggests you turn over. It’s then that you spot a photograph of his mark caldwell son, a young man hanging on the side of a train carriage. He sports a T-shirt worn over a sweatshirt, and his shoulders slope. Over lunch you’ve learned that this son rides trains up and down California. My son the hobo, the man said. You always thought of hobos as men whose wives had left them, men in stinking overcoats and dirt in the creases of their faces and tennis shoes.
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