Visitor’s Pass

by Mathew Richard Carter

Maybe the moon
only offers a halo
over David Geffen’s
house at the peak
of a midnight
mid-August
spell of rain,
a folly for San Francisco’s tallest
street, trickling down to hear my name
on habanera breath
athwart the tongue.

Or maybe the moon
is brighter
over
horizons filled
with promise.
An empty beer can and
four dollars
in the wallet
spells something
completely
different.

I have entered
luxuriant worlds
without resistance,
Look -
the guestbook
has already been signed,
right there
between
Pat Metheny
and Adam Duritz.

Maybe
you remember me,

I have donned
the plastic artifice
that has allowed me
to be here.