it looked like someone had been interrupted, abducted, from a quiet sit-down on my front steps. a pile of papers on the stairs; recipes torn from magazines; a new yorker article, pages stapled on the corner; a statement of reimbursement for one hour of psychotherapy; a large color xerox of a photo of a woman who is biologically a man. a leather bag, all pockets spread open, on the sidewalk. a tupperwear filled with dates, coconut cookies and dried figs, open, with its lid resting crooked on top. the contents had not been disturbed when the step-sitter was taken. every sweet morsel is carefully packed. but he left them.
his name was philip gordie, according to the statement of reimbursement. the articles are about bee-keeping, making strawberry mead. there is a pamphlet from a soup kitchen, for training volunteers. what happened to him?