Derek Walcott


In real life it’s November,
a Wisconsin Saturday of sleet and sweatpants
as I scribble this poem in my messy basement office,
kid toys everywhere, Lego landmines 
and cat litter granules buried deep in the shag.

In my mind, however, I am Derek Walcott
walking barefoot across a beach in Barbados. 
There is no stinking litter box, no bills to pay. 
I am the Poseidon of Poetry, a linen shirt
unbuttoned to my fuzzy navel. 
The churning ocean roars in reverence to its creator. 
A salty breeze blows.
A pink and orange rum runner sits
on a table I carved from harvested teak
as my typewriter waits in a hut. 

Hot damn the magic I will make.
I am the alpha and the omega. 
I am the Lord with a new set of pens.
Today I will write something you will never forget,
while Gary my cat shits over there in the corner.