Not a poem

Because I don't know nuttin
bout no poetry, Miz Scarlett, so:
Just sleepy tappings of what I thought
on the way home sweet home,
oh home home home sweet home.

This:

In one of the infinite parallel universes
that lie alongside this one, I would
walk from the train, where my tired eyes
are still reflected in the glass (don't glance, don't),
onto worn brown boards,
through turnstile,
down stairs one two three four,
then sidewalk and street -
turn right not left -
until I am at the river.

And I will lay me down there -
press myself into the loamy soil
and leak away, melting and melting and running away,
running in rivulets
until I run into the river and then:
Oh the ocean oh the sea.
Until I've run into the sea.
Me the sea.

And only the wind will move me.

And men will sail their ships on me, and
they will fear and respect me and leave me alone,
chart their courses over me
with an astrolabe and a prayer.
Awe and ardor and fascination
And I am required to be
indifferent, see:
the indifferent sea.

The stars will reflect in me,
and the moon and sun, too,
and best of all - eclipses
to match my monsters that live in
the dark waters of me-the-sea.

I'd never be tired, I bet.

And I probably wouldn't need a frigging paycheck, either.