Sat, 07 Apr 2012 13:27:54 +0000

How lonely it felt
in my first New York apartment.
No internet, phone, power or furniture.

Just me, an air mattress
That cold hardwood floor.
And one cozy right-angled corner — for warmth.

Growing up, I'd often say:
I want to run to the woods
Write and think, like Henry D.T.

The world in front of me.
Everything possible,
Nothing required.

In retrospect, though
That air mattress was
My cabin in the woods.

How great that time was—
No responsibility to any task
No accountability to any one.

One air mattress away from starting a new.


But since then, I've applied layers upon layers
Until I looked like an onion
With skin so tightly-wound
The foreign parts are indistinguishable.

But maybe back then
I was a shallot
Maybe back then
I had more than an air mattress.