poem

A Debt of Gratitude To Virginia Lee Burton

It’s all in there, a blueprint for a

life well lived, my sacred text,

perfect replacement for a world

of tired hotel Gideons, this tale

of a plucky fellow with an Irish

surname, unencumbered, set free

to roam at will, picking up work here

and there, more hedgehog than fox, a man

who did one thing and did it well but

wrestled with his private doubts in the dark,

stretched out, perhaps, atop Mary Anne, the

night warm and clear, black sky smeared with

stars, a man who knew how to back up a

claim, take a risk, court failure and

humiliation at the bottom

of a deep, perfectly excised hole,

all four corners neat and square, my idea

of a perfect ending, a second chance,

my Mulligan, quietly tending

the boiler with a good book, waiting

for you and your homemade pie, Popperville,

a world enough for me.