I think or am thinking of him who has
exploded into something different in my thinking,
listening to the geese honk,
the trickle of water go
down the hill
as the sun rises over it.
Thus I begin—
having read the best poem ever written
(“How to Be Perfect” by Ron Padgett).
Although maybe it’s not precisely
the best poem ever written
simply the best list of instructions.
Who’s to tell?
Escaping – somewhere to Chicago maybe –
I could SEE him in Chicago.
P.S. I will be in Chicago on Sunday.
Would you like to see me?
And then the turkeys cross the dirt path.
The fan falls from the ceiling.
My white shorts tucked into a chair
with a dead phone.
I’m really happy with my transient leanings.
