I wonder when Ferlinghetti
spoke of ballerinas in Central Park,
how much coffee he chugged
before feeling the electric
buzz of descriptions
coarse through his pen.

I imagine Mary Oliver
sitting seaside in a cabin,
with shells lining her desk
and her chamomile tea
whispering soft haikus
for her to relay to the world.

Rilke traveling through
Swiss mountains on a train
with a leather briefcase
filled with handwritten letters
and wisdoms borrowed from
his heartbreaks.

Did they write with me in mind?
With other poets in tow?
Their great loves on their sleeves,
melting into their prose.
Who did you write your poems for?

Did they know that a young girl
in California would be sleeping
with their names on books at night,
in replace of a lover?

I bet Hemingway would've like that.