Thank you, to whomever it is
that anonymous thanks belong,
for making the scratching of pen on paper
sound productive by default
so I can look like I am working when I am really
indulging last night’s thoughts and leftover bits of song;
of elbow patches on worn professor jackets
made of woolen tweed.
Thanks to you for useless business meetings
that would be a waste of time except for
this sacred stolen opportunity
to withdraw, to leave my body here
and scratch my way back to lasers dancing
on layers of oak branches and their leaves.
Now back, I am relieved.
Thank you for the Mason-Dixon line that separates
the frosty numbness of my unprotected spine
from the golden-hazed warmth of the fire on my legs,
and thank you for the bodies sitting close
and leaning in,
for the words said under breath
to light my ears and incite sin.
Thanks for the ability to lay back
my head in solemn ecstasy,
my every breath a prayer wrapped in grins
and soaked in guitar necks next to me-
thanks for what this might begin.
I will not thank you, however,
for another entry into the annals of the bittersweet,
as if I needed more disdain for desks.
I already knew that elsewhere there are wooden decks
that lead to marshy water streets -
you didn’t need to rub it in.
You really didn’t need to remind me
of art farms and babies sleeping wrapped up in our poetry
with lumbering canines drinking sips of stolen wine
choosing my feet to slumber under – mine.
But thanks nonetheless for name-dropping peers
and multi-colored mason jars hued by Belgian beer.
Thank you for a row of twenty-somethings children
dangling drunken feet from docks
too skinny for things like mortalityor ticking hands on time bomb clocks.