Sometimes I sit here.
I sit here alone.
Or at least I pretend that is how I am. Alone.
But people stream back and forth, like silver herren.
Like geese to icy lakes, who grow restless and fly back home again to their crumpled, little nests.
If only my crumpled, little nest was farther from theirs.
I would never explore the icy lakes.
The tipping boats.
The New England chowder houses.
I would sleep here forever
in my own crumpled, little nest.