First it was Panama; then New Zealand.
I just want to be somewhere else.
I thought: this place is going to Hell in a hand basket.
But I didn’t quite leave.
Panama had a downturn.
New Zealand didn’t seem quite to want me.
But still I thought: going to Hell in a hand basket.
And as a year went by, and then another,
I fell quiet. Desperate, but quiet.
And so it bubbled, on a mental back burner:
Get out. This place is going to Hell in a hand basket.
And then you, with your roiling enthusiasms,
exclaim: “I am so happy to be here!”
And you tell me (hinting, really)
That here you feel like a person!
So now I imagine a place
Where throughout one’s life, all one knows of horizons
Is the tattered, woven lip of the hand basket.
And your singing is of the approved variety.
And I consider that perhaps
We have not really been weaving that hand basket.
This is not Hell.