if I write you a poem, will you make me a pastrami
sandwich? (if it’s not too much trouble, a little mustard.)
& coffee, black: cream is fattening, & sugar won’t make
me any sweeter.
I have only poems for barter. my gold has vanished,
because it was gold, & has no permanence, as Robert
Frost explained. my tears were crystal, & were fashioned
into wind chimes, for the children of travelling parents.
& gone is the field I wandered in, to be among flowers,
to sit beneath the story tree, as Nature whispered to me
an ode to drifting clouds, to the ribbons in her hair…
I have only my tattered jeans, reeboks with frayed laces, a
poet’s shirt, blue & oversized, to harbor a searching heart.
and I have my poet spirit.
I have abandoned the old house. the rooms were much too
big, & loneliness is large enough.
I have taken a small flat in American Bohemia.
the ghosts there will teach me
how to be a poet.