If I weren’t such a well-known prima donna,
and if I were less timid than a mouse,
I’d call this poem “Directions to my House”
and wait for tomorrow’s batch of marijuana—
the little plastic bag, snuggled tight
between the six clinking bottles of skim,
a special delivery to me from him
so I’d be able to start the morning right.
If the tagline weren’t already taken
I’d say “Your Weed—It Does A Body Good”
not to mention the whole neighborhood;
we’d look for you each day when we’d awaken.
Sound like I’m a dreamer? That’s the point
since the milkman’s now—where else?—in the joint.
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