To Have Loved Mary

Today is Sunday and I'm going to the ocean

or maybe not. Definitely not doing the laundry

or maybe I will. Moss and even a small tree

grow in the rotten stubs of the pier pilings.

The city is Seattle and it has a macho airport.

Give me the comfort of a moose knowing its

water supply. The mosquito's acceptance of its position

among a million mosquitoes. The pool of stagnant

water that remains one with the mothering ocean.

I drift on the air, less than a seed, a bacteria.

Or I am human, big dick, big brain containing

universal philosophic affidavit. Pleased by

the churning of my tongue, sexual enlightenment, 

devout prayer, gourmet dining. I swear

it is best to be alive and to have loved Mary.