It's not that bad, this reunion tour, divorced, deadbeat.
Not having referred to myself as a poet for ten years.
This is not a website, it's a distraction, it is a dream, recurrent.
Crawled from the swamp and writhing along your morning route
Curled under the wild hibiscus as it blooms white and prefect
The size of a fist, sprung straight from the mud.
This is not a swamp, it's the hospital where I work.
I'm sitting in the lobby on break, along with the Bhutanese
That populate the kitchen. My eyes are closed, their language
Washes over me. None of this matters, really.
I'm only leaving this here for my children to find
Much, much later, when our bodies are no longer our own,
Trust me, I know what I'm doing.