He went to the woods to live deep
and suck out all the marrow of life.
In the Poconos, the bone marrow
is served in a white coat
by a smiling man
who asks if I’d like the Sancerre again.
In my 5/6, sleeps 16, not including couches, 4,000 square foot borrowed home
with stand up paddle boards
and the fireplace with a button
behind glass so it’s safe,
I pretend that Thoreau is sipping
the coffee from the nespresso, a medium-dark blend, as he says,
“My friend only had a small cabin
to offer me, but I could have written Walden here.”
I’m sure of it.
“Pass the oat milk, if you please.”