They come in waves before you know it:
Finished basements
Oak kitchen cabinets
Granite countertops
Fancy skylights
Nicely fenced yards
“How about a spot for writing poetry?” I think out loud
“What?” the agent looks puzzled
“Well, you can put your desk in any room you like,
I suppose”
I don’t have a desk, I continue to think
Desks are killers when it comes to writing poetry
You need to be able to run wild, you see
How else can you grab a piece of time
Stretch it to infinity
And pretend nothing unusual has happened?
Fenced by a desk, you will never…
The agent is pointing to the fancy brickwork
Around the fireplace in another room
I am talking to myself, again
June 24, 2000