the poet laments

If only I’d had 

the good fortune

when I was young,

to drive through 

the dunes of the Sahara 

in a four-wheel drive,

guzzling stars—

instead of being 

cash-strapped, 

sleeping in musty tenements,

picking up shifts 

as a plongeur

at Vieux-Montreal bistros,

imagining Van Gogh

peering through the iron bars

of his asylum window—

as I step out for a smoke

in the alley,

look up,

and admire 

the starry night.