Henry Miller

Sometimes late at night
Full of dark Panama rum
I curl myself into a tiny ball--
Fetal, the doctors would say.

And all rolled up, I enjoy the cool tile floor,
The bright bathroom lights,
Clinical and soothing and mirrored,
Like the green room into which I was born.

There is little safety in this green place
Outside the womb and a diffident mother’s embrace
So very little that is secure or wanted or sweet--
Nearly nothing that matters in the night.

I was in love yesterday, for example.
During the day and the evening,
Drinking coffee in a bar with a green tiled floor.
Even the necktied waiter enjoyed that love.

And tonight I curl into this space
While the music pounds on the street.
There is nothing to hold here
And less to want outside.

There are pictures in the travel agent’s window
That promise something more upright:
Some Grecian light and sea and air--
Henry Miller returned to life.