Should I buy a baker's bread
or re-write words that Witkó said?
I could make the dough myself
or stack old tomes upon a shelf
or plant some trees across the land
with seeds thrown from my leftern hand
while waving with my right appendage
to folks from Folsom up to Grenwich.
Or maybe I could build some desks
for men who like to produce texts
of legalese and legal lies
on furniture mahogonized.
I'll chop the trees I've sown and soaked
and saw down cherries, maples, oaks,
and sycamores, but not the pears,
for those give shade to iron chairs
and reddish stones and bluish tiles
which recently have traveled miles
from Mexico to patio
though I still need to set them so
with mortar and some elbow grease
but I might rather speak my peace:
I'll kick back in an old lawn chair
and grow my ‘stache and cut my hair
and read of Crocketts, Bills, and Boones.
Or maybe I’ll just jam some tunes.
