the poet’s pursuit is an ethics foe
and the he or the she who dares compose
a lyric in praise of sweet solitude
can count on forfeiting support
while pouring a forbidden foundation.
Being alone most of the time
is not being alone all of
the time. Fantasy is fantasy.
I miss the ache of knowing my age
situates me outside the range
of the bouquet, mobile and tan.
Miss drink, smoke, being a dirty old man.