On my feet, I read
Edith Hamilton Mythology, soles chilled upon the concrete

of my deck at night, winds somber with their roars,
I’m tilting, on my right leg, the streetlamp

drools its LED rays, and they are grey,
sickish grey, and should I try, I can smell the brine

of the Puget Sound, I might remember my old life on boats,
pontoons and loon calls, feeling guilty as I hook a fish

– so I never fish, but I like lily pads, and observing
coots and gulls and Canada geese,

I flip a page, wade into a shadow, halt my interpretation
of Orpheus and Eurydice, find my mind listing

into the Philippines were my friend is currently studying the coral reef;

but my interests lie in the Bukidnon myths of death and sickness,
eschatology, how many spirits are still dwelling in my body,

would the Ten-Headed One take pity on me,
I lie to myself and say certainly,

drape my hands through my brown hair, my book
a brief hat, and I look out

and the moon is quite low in the sky, stooped down
towards the world, I hear the massive Vrroooom of a muscle car

dash by, three decades I have believed
that someday I might have a night without cars,

no human feet stomping on accelerations,
just the moans of creaky boots

on greensward.