As I stretch out comfortable
on the non-rack of my bed,
O divine one whose existence
I know only by my own laughter,
you come and I’m so pleased
for you only to see my words
and know how lucky I am to
have few fans for when I slip
up and write stupidly and
inelegantly you still give
a slight smile and nod of
acknowledgement in the great
Doesn’t Matter, in the wind
through the tall white pines