I am not a poet. I am a lawyer.
Why? Because I’d rather
make money, which I do. Well,

A magpie on a slippery branch
In the cloying wind!
A gloomy October day…

And yellow leaves
Pale and wet against
Somewhat plagiarized black boughs

First time I saw you, I was at the wheel
of a powerboat, bone-rattle slamming
over the roiling waves. I was decked out
in rubber suit, goggles, breathing
apparatus. The full man-of-action kit.
I was pumped up, ready to dive, emerge,
scramble over rocks, haul myself
through crevices and up gradients,
basically the whole Milk Tray scenario.

Let my grants be bountiful,
And my meal plan be plenty.
Let my boxed wine runneth over.

When things go wrong in my life, I blame it on the fact that no one in my family knows what day my birthday is.

It was the morning of my eighth birthday when it was brought to my attention that I’d had the wrong date for my birthday.

For eight years.