This life appeals to the poet in me.
Maybe I made it this way unconsciously.
Did I make sure, after many years,
There’s nothing left of the greatest relationship, but tears?
And this city by the sea, with just enough street lights to obscure the stars,
A history, a museum, a few cafés and bars?
Civilization means a certain lack of people, and if you’re lucky, not too many cars.
I found a sea town somewhat isolated, where traffic is thin,
Because who wants that highway insanity or the bustling neighborhood din
Thronged with trash, people over-dressed, under-dressed, chatty, too fat, or too thin?
A poet needs beaten-down people, otherwise they’ll be in his face.
Don’t shout good news. Slink by. Give me writing space.
It’s nice to live walking distance to the commuter train.
I invent a poem as I amble with a coffee towards the station.
Once in a while, I’ll wait in the freezing rain,
But a new poem keeps going in my head as I step into the warm car.
That’s it. I take the train to work. It’s not far.