No Rainy-Day Friend

The morning wakes.
It is first light.
I am tied to a trunk,
Like the rampart of a huge ship.
The fabric is from the sail
Of a boat from Trinidad
The twine taken from the cleats
My clothes I set to dry.
By morning,
I hear the seashore,
Which put me to bed.
I dream of the ocean.
I swing in the wind.
I go over all the lovers I have had
Down the list of bodies and
Faces.
We went to places together,
Became intimate for honest reasons.
This is where I end up.
Tied to a pole,
Somewhat comfortable with the beauty of the idea,
But not so much with the warmth.
Because as a man, I have let no one in.
I chose my freedom
And tethered myself to a tree
As far away from others
I have shared and then forgotten
Until they come to me like ghosts
That make up the landscape of myself.
You may come to me and knock at the invisible door,
But I am just like the weather vane,
No rainy day friend.

The Definition of Hope

The incremental simplicity of desire
A single string between his happiness and our hearing
He plays that guitar as if it is his last hope.
He puts everything into it.
What we never offered to teach
He taught himself.
With nothing except a momentary good fortune
We were able to see.
The artist depends on the willingness of strangers.
He believes in a God that will take care of him.
But, if all of us have single string guitars
And we await our chances,
Who will come to our need?