-from the lineup-

so this morning it's

Charles Simic.

c’mon out, mr. Simic from your slip

nestled between Ross Gay, and Chloe Martinez,

cloaked in your glazed winter jacket the color of –––

butterscotch mousse !

let’s see what you’re up to this Monday sunrise,

aromatized by a pot of dark, French Roast coffee from ––

Sweden ! ahhh..!  but wait.

your mother was a braid of black smoke, you say?

christ !–– and now I see you, a suckling child stolen by ––

gypsies? christ !

who'm I kidding?

I’ll never get to Sweden, let alone France.

but I've got my hands around the spine

of your zany run at the world, Charles.

and what’s this?

you’re in New Hampshire ?

why, that’s no more than a hop, skip, jump, and

three hour tram ride up the mountainside !

so let's get together next weekend, Charles,

and we can discuss the merits of all my poems,

which after this effort on my part on your behalf,

I'll presume, with assertiveness, you'll owe me.