In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

gypsy envy I have a friend who says he’s happiest when he’s moving— between states, between cities, it didn't matter. It feels so good, he says, to have everything you own boxed up and packed tight in the trailer behind you— knowing at each stoplight, or at each highway exit, you could just turn left…or turn right… And I thought how similar that is to the life of a poet— always reaching; always searching for answers; always traveling down new thought pathways with everything we’ve ever accumulated— everything we’ve ever seen and tasted and touched and read and smelled, flung together in the carpet-baggage of our brain. I guess we’re both just gypsies at heart… But then we see those tiny songbirds, racing by, premeditated; quickly zooming in, tucking into the tiny, innermost, branches of a tree, always able to alight perfectly, effortlessly, so sure of their path; so sure of their exact destination. Their thoughts, never plagued by uncertainties; never once burdened by rolled rugs and cardboard boxes, and the scattered, empty circles of packing tape… -40- ...

Share