"I want to be a prophet,"
he said.
"I am not a man of faith,"
I said.
Paging through books,
black coffee
on Tuesday morning,
and I can't stop thinking
about things
that don't really matter.
He wants to be a prophet,
I want to sail the seas,
paging through days
of calloused labor
and clandestine longing,
dreaming of your arms.
He'll stand among the prophets
on the altar,
as I drink red wine
with the captain
and great kings
salt the earth.
