Letter Home

Mama, I’m awful tired

and I feel like coming home

to eavesdrop on the ocean

and spit into the foam.

I talk to people on buses

spend all my tips on books

tell lies to good looking customers

and cheer for all the crooks.

I listen to jazz all evening

forgetting to sleep or eat;

there’s a brown dog from the junkyard

who attacks me on the street.

My friends aren’t.

My lover doesn’t.

My work is.

My party wasn’t.

Out here in the heartland

even the cows are bored

and I’d commit hara kiri

if I could afford the sword.