A court poet’s what I’d have liked to be,
a soft-stepping, sage little Pekinese,
a hanger on—that’s what they taught me
to do, and battle constantly with my status.

I’d like to have lived in places you couldn’t get
out of, where everything’s seen at one remove,
dawn, time passing, the angle of the light,
reconstructed from accidental details.

To be tossed between a chosen few
like a bright chrome flipper ball, to dart
like ricocheting gunfire, smack after smack.
To be reduced, like clear meat broth.

I’d need to be informed of everything;
what I pass over, ceases to exist.
One cannot answer for excessive space.
Better a palace with not too many wings.

2005