Half Fiction

Eight hundred miles for you.
Eight hundred miles for me.
What can I say?
It’s not so hapless.

It’s not so harsh.
I can take it.
So I sit on the porch and I listen to traffic.
I read the paper.

This is water.
This is wood.
This is your living room.
This feels good.

Half fiction, half documentary.
I’m right on. no.
I don’t know.
There is distance more than miles.

But our ideas are adjoining canals.