scratch that

Christmas Wish List

I’d like to share my name,
Drink,
And struggle with words.

I want my morphine addict,
And I want my tragic beauty.

I want our words to
Linger like wet snow,
Force people to slip and
Grab elbows.

I’d like a good couch,
Someone to settle with,
If only for a brief exchange of glances.

I want it like,
Bums who preface begging
With mantras.

In a freight train yard,
Or on an El train platform,
Or on the face of a smothered penny
That’s seen both.

No good haibun whispering lightly like white socks on wooden floors,
No good pen tip slipping briskly over wrong words,
No good hardcover story with a bum name.

I want five cent beers and
Penny porcelain cups of black
Coffee.

I want a cafeteria tray
A bleak one,
With a half slice of
Grapefruit
On a little white
Saucer.

I want to eat my meals alone,
I want to break the spines
Of all my paperbacks
So they’ll lay down quietly
When I make them.

Most of all,
I want someone to come up to me,
Lying on the sidewalk,
And ask me what I’m reading.