To Have Loved Mary

Today is Sunday and I'm going to the ocean or maybe not. Definitely not doing the laundry or maybe I will. Moss and even a small tree grow in the rotten stubs of the pier pilings. The city is Seattle and it has a macho airport. Give me the comfort of a moose knowing its water supply. The mosquito's acceptance of its position among a million mosquitoes. The pool of stagnant water that remains one with the mothering ocean. I drift on the air, less than a seed, a bacteria. Or I am human, big dick, big brain containing universal philosophic affidavit. Pleased by the churning of my tongue, sexual enlightenment, devout prayer, gourmet dining. I swear it is best to be alive and to have loved Mary.