I want to live a poetic life, a life

full of cracked vases and weary eyes,

travelling feet and half-torn hearts.

I want to live a poetic life, feel the residue

of the world I wish I’d been born into. Feel the novelty

of Steinbeck’s Valley, the rough surface of

Kerouac’s road.

I want to live a poetic life, feel the warmth

of a summer wind whipping through my hair

around a fire, surrounded by friends who

have no idea how much they enrich my world every day.

I want to live a poetic life, live in a cramped apartment

in a poor part of town, with a broken oven and

a leaky ceiling. Collect remnants of painted

plates and yellowed book-pages.

I want to live a poetic life, a life

that ends, sitting on my granddaughter’s couch

telling her about all of the adventures I’ve had.