I think I was a professional surfer in another life.
Or a boxer. A pugilist, I should say. A writer is a curse.
I think I was a Jack-in-the-Box jester, popping out of said box.
Maybe I was a wolf howling at the moon, wind, clouds.
Or, I was a ghost. Because other lives don’t exist.
But, what if I was a ballerino in the ‘60s plotting
Against the government? A rebel ballerino—yes!
No, what if I wasn’t anything but a poet and a painter?
What if it rained all summer? Snowed in spring?
How do you end a poem? With words. Precious words.