I am stoked.

I am a furnace fresh

with wooden fuel.

I am moving to my own tune,

dancing with phantoms,

and loving life.

This is temporary, and the result

of a liberal glass of red,

luscious wine.

When we find that house, I will

plant grapes.

I will plant tubers

of potatoes, and asparagus.

I will have huge

rhubarb, and my kale

will win awards.

The red wine is a ruby jewel

reflecting light

through its portly waves,

and I wish for a moment I was

light enough

to wear a red velvet

gown.

Wine does this to me,

makes me wish

and wishing makes me

happy.

I move from here to there,

and am hopeful that the movers

will come

next week.

Of course, they won’t.

I raise my glass

to empty rooms.

To you, to this house,

to these walls that have sheltered me,

it is not your fault

that you are losing nails.

It won’t be long before

this structure crumbles,

and I weep

for the waste

of trees.