The words are falling down. The beagle upstairs has barked itself to a hush. “Rhapsody in Blue” on the radio, Gershwin playing Gershwin, and I thank the holy DJ for silently answering a wish I never thought to wish. His license is suspended for two days, and I will not drive him anywhere. Philadelphia was born with the same subway system that it still has today. Nothing has changed. Benny Goodman on clarinet, George behind the keys. I might be inventing these people. The radio does that. If he were you, his car would work only in reverse, and he would drive backwards all the way here from Fishtown with his heart stapled to his PA plates in the back for when he parallel parks and accidentally bumps the guy parked behind the spot he’s trying to fill. “It’s a visual illustration,” he as you would say. “Of what?” The words are falling all around, and he as you — because he is he as you and not him or you — would not answer, no matter how hard I (me as me) would think to wish.