A half-buried rock,
you called me old-fashioned.
With my 1962 smith-corona
typewriter, deluxe version.
My MP3 player, with sounds
from Louis Armstrong
and his Hot Five –
Ella Fitzgerald and Billie Holiday.
But this is no grey time.
This fenced-off narrow space,
of strange and primitive ways.
Holds a life that
flows steadily onward.
I look at my own body now,
with eyes no longer,
drunk or subdued.
With words, that sometimes
cry of art and love.
And I see now there
is an extension,
and a road still to find.
A Wandering Poet 