Perfect, perhaps, was sitting under a tree
In front of someone else’s house
And writing about the stars
Until blinded by a flashlight
(gun metal black, six D-cell batteries)
ID checked, had I been drinking?
Where did I live?
Why wasn’t I there?
Who sits under a tree
With a pen and a notebook
At this time of night?
But perfect is such a peculiar thing
Like that space underneath the tree
Neither mine nor someone else’s.
Poem by Gavin Craig.