I take my wine out to the garden
and raise my glass to the moon,
as I often do.
We are old friends.
Trees and shadows play with moonlight on the walk
as people stream by from the park where sun held them all day.
They do not understand why the bright moon
chose me to shine on.

I am many people,
a mask for every situation.
The real me is lazy and lets that happen,
watches from somewhere
and doesn't get involved.
You think I am listening to you.
My masks are skilled at attentive expressions,
but I'm somewhere else.
Writing the next line of a poem.
Visualizing the process
of getting ready to and going fishing tomorrow.
Thinking through a long, detailed argument
to disprove an opinion full of errors
I thought up myself.
Figuring out how to fix something
that isn't broken yet.
When I say I will change
and work harder to pay attention,
that might not be me talking.

I left truth on the sidewalk
when I went into the tall office building.
It was on wheels but heavy.
I couldn't get it to the upper floors
even in the freight elevator.
And it might not get past the metal detectors
in the lobby.
I hoped no one would take it.

When I came out
people were walking around it
trying not to look.

What I can tell you is,
it's not like a Bosch painting
or Rodin's gates.
You will never see flames
as is commonly thought.
It's more like a dense fog
where you will wander around forever.
You will hear unintelligible voices
but if you move toward those voices,
they will recede from you.

Did I say,
there is no furniture?