When you escape your own poetry reading

on Saturday we decide
to hit the road,
just GO like Kerouac
or Holmes straddling the white
line of highway.

we reach the cabin:
fresh gray paint. up here it is still
the dead of winter
so we hack
down trees and burn
the Yellow Pages for warmth.

The Beatles will always be cool
you say with glazed eyes,
wine warmth.

and for a moment we are
allowed to believe
this is all
we really need.

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