I want a poem that I can live in without br the barking dogs of dissatisfaction and br disillusion disrupting the otherwise peaceful br afternoon of it. I want to create that other-place br on the page without having to first create it br in my mind, or – to be too busy actually wallowing br there to find time enough to write it down. I want br to recite that poem, my poem, in a cozy little br coffee shop where they sell used books and cater br to local poets in a crazy cool, confident Sexton br like voice that does not mask but replaces the br hesitant voice that conveys, in between every word br it utters, the fear that someone will realize the truth br of it. I want to read it to them, then, there, as if I were br reading it just to you and in the way I might have if br I had shared it with you back when I couldn't wait br to share the everything that was tumbling out of me. br I want them to applaud sort of quietly as I conclude – br not because it sounded good, but because, br by every possible definition of poetic, it was. br I want to see you smile as I slide back into the br chair next to you for knowing, more than they br ever could, its truth. br br And… I really wouldn’t mind so terribly much br if the waiter said something sweet like, “I wish br I could write poems like that” as he filled br our coffee cups and you replied with a br warm and sincere, “You can.