Let’s say we’ve moved beyond ambition,
that masculine monsoon of goals and deadlines,
and the impossible reckonings of power
which politicians wear on their faces
like gnarled branches. Let’s say the saturnine
children were not abandoned and let’s say
I loved you as much as I loved my oak-colored nose
and the impossible moose hidden on the sides
of county roads in Maine, would you hold
my oddities to your chest like the found gold of 1849?
Would you pan the clear streams of my blunders
and carry back to your mining camp my corroding
extractions gleaming like nuggets -- all bling and no history.
Dust and sand have blown over these feet for years.
Nameen? The songs beneath my opening nights are blue.
Nameen? I’ve journeyed more seas than ancient pirates
and only have low-interest bank statements to show for it.
Oh dear, hand me my workman’s clothes.
I’ve rifles to spin like a member of a marching guard.