In a certain mood pristine thighs loudly swimming
seemed -- I don't know -- important to me and my loser friends.
In other words, a blissful kind of skull, not dejected but gently
marking time. I had no inspiration.
Not even a memo directing me to the sufficient desk.
So then a thief in raccoon hat approached,
her sweet nape loosely hinged.
Poetry is kind of like that thief,
stealing your shoes while you
draw up lists for future and surprising meals.
SIGNED TED BERRIGAN