last friday

the owl and the pussycat on winthrop island, in their own bodies all the time. i walked down to pussy's door with a wilted newspaper in my hand like a bouquet of flowers, and we talked awhile about this year that is about to die. we should have held hands. two poems that will change the world are floating in manuscript around winthrop.
i walked back into boston with the dawn soaring up over my head, and the brown grasses on the water like matted hair, blown into frenzied peaks by the wind. landbridge, pharmacy, baygulls, a myopic look back into odyssey as jet planes crossed the boston city hairline receding in the mist.
it was always my fear to one day lose my mind, my dream to walk with a limp. hardly the former, barely the latter. or else vice-versa. there's no telling in the drift between seasons. the forecast: a wet, limp winter.