In the Rye

Tomorrow morning, before
the sun comes up, I am
moving south to a house
close to the beach, where my
feet will rest on warm white
sand, and feel the cold pull
of ocean. A place where no one
can find me except those I
wish to tell in cryptic messages
sent by the slowest possible
mail. There might be a dog,
or a cat or two involved.
Shelves of books, every one
I've ever read, or am about
to read will be resting at arms
length to be read again.
The printer will be full of ink,
white paper stacked awaiting
words, awaiting rhyme, mischief
and confession. Awaiting life
as I perceive it to be, not as
it really is. I will be Salinger
in red swim trunks, untouched
by phone or knocks upon
the door. I"ll be right there,
straight ahead, through the rye.