glasstronaut blues

I met a man to whom a
bucketlist does not make sense.
"why not just do it?"
he was a man who did not salt
his food before he tried it
and who nursed his dog back to health with
I.V. tubes and a diet of chicken and rice.
who was a prison doctor and
who once resolved a hostage situation
in which he was the hostage.

He cooked us paella
as they do in his spanish hometown
and served us 12 year double barrel.

She'll tell you their story in which she was 16
and alive and fell in love with the 38 year old doctor
who used her traveling father's yard as a shortcut,
walking from the sailboat where he lived
to town.

about how, later, he rescued her from the mast
of her ex-husband's ship
about how her ex-husband was tried for piracy
and about a life where
it was good while it last-chance-d
because day-by-day and
because now, both are ageless.

she gave us sangria and tells stories like
we live in a world where everyone is hamlet,
but without death
and he, 60, built a pool in his city
courtyard with spanish tiles
and ties himself to a tree,
swimming against the rope
and calling every fifteen minutes a mile.

She dreams with your dreams
he pours scotch
you would not believe that i am under-exaggerating.
and now i am back in school,
hiding in a woodshop where i intend to cut a hole in the wall
to bring in natural light.
and where the late night speakers crackle.