Moving (hour 12, 8:01pm)
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.