Gift
Bridges built of cornflakes and sawdust.
Trenches trudged with broken clogs.
I saunter through serpentine corridors,
emaciated, looking for chicken soup. Where
is the backseat driver when you need him?
I despise the day opium was brought
from China to other shores, through India
to sadhus who sleep on maple floors.
Where does it come from, the chlorophyll
ingested by amphibian life? The light
beyond yonder window breaks, and I am happy.
I know what I have given, I do not
know what you have received.
