Thoreau slapped his friend, Emerson's
broad back, said,
Hey Ralphie boy,
I'm checkin' out.
I need a place to lay low,
whaddaya think?
Emerson said, Of course,
this land is your land.
And so the picture of Thoreau:
Freshly calloused fingers
gripping the shaft of Emerson's ax,
cleaving Walden logs.
Heaving a sigh from above,
tracing his length in a breath-frosted window,
Mrs. Emerson gently corrects herself.
Musing on the exchange rate
for just one minute alone with that Henry David...
Well!
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