Out of Doors

For Gavin

Not being a sleepwalker by nature, I
seldom find myself wandering into brick
shithouses by moonlight. I will drop by
the fridge to gnaw on a cold drumstick—

now and then—seized by hunger pangs—
the result of the treadmill. I’ve been doing
so much running. I want to look good for you
in Frisco, or Black Mountain, wherever

pale asses glow most poetically by night.
I am thinking of myself here. I see
me—for no good reason—because I am
incarcerated in a gray cubicle—

abandoning treadmills for roads—doing
dirty things out doors: lying under
a tree, sharing a green sleeping bag—
well-fed, well-fucked—well, wondering if

this sort of life would make me happy—
if, God forbid, this fantasy came true.