tired from being a poet
i throw myself onto
Howard Johnson’s bed
and long for home,
that sad mysterious country
where nobody notices
a word i say, nobody
thinks more of me or less
than they would think of any
chattering thing; mice
running toward the dark, leaves
rubbing against one another,
words tumbling together
up the long stair, home,
my own cheap lamp i can switch off
pretending i’m at peace there
in the dark. home. i sink at last into
the poet’s short and fitful sleep.
