At that point, everything I’ve ever wanted is
Staring me in the face. These words are so
Close to the time of Hemingway I could feel
Myself sitting in that coffeeshop next to him—
Maybe with Gertrude Stein on my right. They
Aren’t my words though—but they could be—
I could write this, I could string a few words
Together that turn into the compilation that
Is this book. I could be sharing my thoughts to
Hemingway about the baby—and to Fitzgerald
About my wife, or the crib, doctor, tears,
Typewriter, or red lipstick. If it’s so real in my
Mind, couldn’t it be real in the tangible world?
Because after all—life and fiction come so close
That they almost touch, though they never really
Do, maybe if I stretch my hand just a little farther
I can make the words my own.
Poet's Corner 