Reservations i

I would like to dive

into a sea of dead letters

and let myself turn paper thin,

to wait alone in a taxi

for a lady heading home.

And as she stumbles by, left foot 

slipping on the sleek curb 

of the sidewalk,

I'll not only stare.

I will give my eyes

a pair of legs

a long arm

and a rubber hand

that will slither

and sway in the wind

like the sapling on the edge

of Wheeler's farm.

Two years ago, it began

its continuing ascent

sprouting quick as a dog dick

from a sea of dead leaves.