This poem was going to be about the dog's
copper-gold hair and the old
man petting it. Two days ago
I paid $400 to my dept consolidation
program--a 3rd party that manages
my past lack of understanding or
awareness. In three and a half years the
car will be paid off and my dept
too. Friends ask, "why Tanzania?"
I can't just say "real estate" and anyway
that would be a lie. So I say "uh, beauty,
desperation, a different way of living."
A friend is grading papers and swears
and I say "what's wrong?" but I know:
parry, parry, etc. I can't just go to
Tanzania, not with these debts,
and there are even more substantial reasons.
Can't even be homeless. Children march
around a California court-yard. It's not
paradise but I know no place is. It rains.
Step out of the plane or now more
likely airport anywhere in South East
Asia and the air is sometimes nearly liquid.
My Beat Reader toting x-boyfriend wanted
to go to India with me. "Beat is for boys,"
I might have said, but Dad left Bombay
before I could visit and Beat boy dumped me.
I got fat. It's too bad I didn't understand
my major abandonment issues. Moping
around reading Paul Bowles.
I'm healthy now, though. Mark can't read
anymore and I can't concentrate. I say
"let me finish this," but I can't. My
stomach hurts from donuts and coffee.
"Good company," says the man of his dog.