The gas men have come and gone
barely making it out the drive.
“Who is this guy, living at the end of nowhere?”
I could tell them, how the quiet is…
The quiet (!) of my music, my poetry,
the quiet of talking out loud to no one
I can say anything to anyone
and distill what works
into reality

I could tell them, if they could hear
but they don’t have the ears, the eyes…
I saw them looking around when I brought them in
from the cold.
I counted out cash and they took it,
still looking around
I could tell it was no use

They would never have my eyes, my ears
my vision of the world as it could be
as it is for me, in what they could see
No narrow, end-of-the-road way of living
No hiding from what is, and is to be
The way of living free.