Sometimes I wish I wasn't, I hadn't been right
about these things.
But I'm afraid this has only proved to be more true,
and the metaphor of addiction more true
than I even thought at that time.
I'm going to slip this in.
It's a rare combination of a work poem and a love poem.
It's called, "After Work".
The shack, and a few trees float in the blowing fog.
I pull at your blouse, warm my cold hands on your breasts.
You laugh and shudder, peeling garlic by the hot iron stove.
Bring in the axe, the rake, the wood.
We'll lean on the wall against each other, stew simmering
on the fire as it grows dark, drinking wine.