The drop-outs of the sixties/seventies,
bloodless with the strain of too much money,
own houses crowded with what everyone else
does for laughs: finches in aluminum cages. We shall wait until we are properly rested.
The best way is to be sent ahead.
Or to send oneself ahead.
Like a crated dog on a train,
suddenly freed on the rolling hills
of the Nebraska panhandle.
The boring are about
argument distilled into quaint
verse by MFA professors. We shall wait for inspiration at that coffee shop where we discuss writing.