I’m eighty-four
it’s not graspable
that I’m without a home

not homeless 
but kicked out
of a houseboat

on a bathtub of a lake
with my buddy Jack gone
& most of “The Dix” gang.

Brooklyn to Lake Herrington
it’s all a blur, a messy mix
of men and women

a child sprung like a pearl
from an empty shell, lovers
of (all) sorts, my career 

as a male nurse with a stint 
in the navy, vietnam so early
like a picnic on the beach.

Penelope struts around
on the upper deck in a thong
bikini yelling get up ZZ

get up and start writing
but I’m down, down in my cups,
no mood for memories

no mood to be Penelope’s great
gramps & tell my story about
and no gift as a bard or poet