I’d like to be young Ewan MacGreg
or an NYC ***** circa 1977, spitting
over balcony railings and pushing
thumbtacks into white-washed
walls. All I’ve got for my
Ocean Voyage is a bed - and
so it becomes a boat and
the sheets are washed every day. And
from these clean travels I promise
I’ll mail you words on a regular basis
as long as you
promise to be waiting on the other
end, ready to pick up the envelope that
the greasy green teenager dropped you.
Ready to dig with bathrobe and trowel and
write me back about what you found
buried in the ink! As long as you
don’t disturb the soil. And remember, all
this excess comes from me, the
kid with the killer grin.