There are dreams I could conjure in these lines—
walk on Mars
kiss a willing stranger
wear a diamond
drive a Maserati
cut a throat—
but blood dictates another course:
And so I will not kiss you Princess
nor bind and flay your lovely hide
nor vanish with you for this weekend
of debauchery and gain ten pounds.
I’ll watch TV and write this poem
vacuum the living room
pile saltines with cheese
and have a slow late afternoon
scotch and conversation at home.