I was lost in the ‘40’s for twenty years.
Sharp clothes and heroin. I found some comfort there.
I was born against my will, like every actor on earth.
But I’m in no hurry to leave
my sip of black coffee and crisp white shirts.
That’s how it is sometimes when the world is off your back:
like Jean-Paul Belmondo and Jean Seberg in bed.
Although he died, of course. Shot in the back.
It’s forty degrees and raining this early November afternoon,
all the leaves dropped off my back. Sometimes I find
such beauty in the dead.
The clean white bones of the world in my teeth.
Nothing to do but watch the storm roll over
the prairie, listen for thunder.
It’s raining harder now, wind lashing
sticks against the window and what’s this
good time doing in my head?
I thought I was sick. It’s probably
just visiting but I wish it would stay for awhile.