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CARGO . . .

Pants. My wife has gone to the Land’s End
to buy me 3 pairs—black & blue & tan. She
asks me to try them on. I point out that I’m
neither mason, roofer, nor carpenter. Have
neither adze, plane, drill, chisel, caliper. No

Cargo to stash in their HOLDS. You needn’t
load tools in ’em, she says. It’s just the style.
Form trumping content makes me man o’ the
people & buttons keep pickpockets from my
wallet, keys. I’ll wear ’em if you SHRED the

KNEES . . .



Universe? I’m in 1! And what a hapless
1 it is – for me. I’m trying to be a great
poet. But hardly anyone reads my work.
I’ve yet to win a Pushcart  – let alone a
Pulitzer! Editors couldn’t care less if in

Parallel worlds I’ve won 16 MacArthurs,
9 National Book Awards & a Nobel Prize!
That I’ve been the Poet Laureate of Idaho.
Maybe even The Isle of Crete! Small bier.
Because I’m here. Parallel Universes never

MEET . . .