Run deep. The people

we know, or think we

know, or wish we were,

if only we could find

a way outside the prison

of selfishness. Unlikely.

One hundred years—or more—

of solitude can’t break these walls.

But, you know, there we

have it. Other people.

Maybe they can save us,

maybe they can ruin us,

maybe we can find a way

into a twangy heaven, where

people weep, and weep,

and say how much they

love us. What is love?

Who is he, and what is

he to you?

Black, brown, beige

and battered, like an old suitcase

draped at the bottom

of a cot in a flop house.

Or a van, or private jet.

High flying. Home alone.

Waiting for the call

of the wild, and wondrous winter.

I celebrate myself, and mourn myself.

You too.