matter how happy or comfortable I think I am in room 111,
reading Flowers by the window, Playback stretched out in bed,
or seated at the desk, near the ashtray on which a Lucky burns,
typing notes from the steno pad that could lead to more poems,
I have to get out. My idea of hell is too much heaven
(an idea I wouldn’t defend, though I also don’t care what X said)
so out I go, to Washington Square Park, maybe, for a few turns
around the outer edge of a greener world, near church and signs,
further out, the Art Institute, or down to Market by Chinatown,
or even, if I really want to walk, all the way to Golden Gate Park,
or, to cross the Bay, the foot of Broadway for Berkeley by thumb.
over the Bay Bridge can by itself erase the deepest frown
and the driver’s almost certain to suggest a joint. I’m home by dark
and, having bowled up in a VW on the way back, pleasantly numb.
-- Ron Horning