As I was—aloft—somewhere between Boston and LA
at evening’s peak
a blue God-calling blizzard below
You breathing somewhere in western Massachusetts
this lurching, unhinged Sunday evening
reclining like a “Lord of the manor”
clinging to your ill-fated crushing academic career
with your imploding love life—where even your children hate you
while sitting comfortably in an enormous chair
with a single sufficient reading light turned on—It—
perfectly set, over your shoulder, immaculately shining from the right
with a fireplace-heated—cozy as woolen socks
inside your fairy tale minted log cabin after the gin soaked snow blinding early dinner
and now, softly sipping from an ancient snifter of brandy—I—
sat cramped as a crab in the economy section
while you researched my lineage—then rejected my poetry.