I like the blackness behind my eyes.
It draws down the lids and seals them shut with
A serene flush around the body that
Tells me I won’t need the oars.
For a moment I can lay back at
The bottom of the boat,
Allow the sun to spread from toe to nose, like
A freshly laundered sheet and
Float along my own river.
No need for conversation or
How do you does,
The footpaths, cut with millions of walking feet are
Free and vacant, with
Concepts drawn from necessity
In another’s hands.
If London or New York call
Tell them I’m not in.
They don’t need to know where.
If they press,
Tell them I’m here and happy being so.
If bad news strides up to
Blow down my house,
Tell the wolf that I’m making bricks and
I’ll deal with it in a mo’.
There’s nothing to be done now.
Oh, look! My guide is here.
She’ll sing with golden chords.
The melody will anchor me for another day.
Tomorrow and yesterday are for fiction.