My Campaign

This is the most delicious I've ever been
writing you a poem in crayon that you can't
read because the tip has been broken off.
My knuckles, or what has become of them
a machete or something glassy like your eyes
light and new. From the blackboard a ruffian
shapes letters in my blood making a loopy
scrawl like some French bedspread in Versailles.
Maybe when I'm older there will be a better
looking sky to look at than the one I'm looking
at now which is all stained with Monday
and making my heart ache in that dopey
way a heart can ache on a Monday. Still, what
fabulous things are in store for us like trains
and the complicated math of daily separation
why would you give me money now when
my campaign is over or should have been
long ago when I was so much bolder then.