Billy Collins on Vacation in Maine
I am standing on the deck overlooking the shore
in bare feet with a cup of steaming tea, opera on the radio,
watching seagulls and a lone man in a plastic kayak
which barely zigzags as he chants to seals while
the first clouds climb the rigging above the bay.
A white lobster boat draws unhurried circles
and the drone is carried by the gulls
to wedge between the bars of Verdi’s quartet.
I study last night’s wine glass on the railing
lit by a ray of sun which goes on to
gather blueberries and ferns and a small sparrow.
Cats watching through the window wear calico shadows
borrowed from the birches like the green
fleece pulled on over my nightgown,
which I pull closer to my shoulders
feeling what it’s like to be Billy Collins in Maine.