I didn’t make them, but I made my way—
from Bath to Bangkok, Bern and back again.
I printed thousands of blank business cards
and distributed them one by one into the Seine,
which hired me to stare at it six hours a day
(my wages images, my colleagues pigeons).
My personal funds had long since sprung a leak.
I rode on lines of credit spun from sheer mystique.
Down byways, autobahns, and boulevards
I drove my ’58 Mongoose Civique:
a crow-blue roadster with white racing stripes
and nickel trimmings, fitted with secret gears,
circular rearview mirror, cream-upholstered seats,
a dashboard lighter customized for pipes,
and, in the glove box, an homage to Keats
that moved a traffic constable to tears…
The real world unprepared for me—birds winging it, trees
startled into greenness as I disembarked,
tarmacs unscrolling, backroads rolling till I parked
and watched the whole scene freeze.
I couldn’t get away with it for long,
or be away from her. But what to be?
Or more precisely, do? Write poetry?
A poet is anyone who has a strong
opinion about the moon—and I had three,
and she’d heard all of them, and called them wrong.