The Duke in Pines Poem by Ryan Van Winkle

I woke up with Duke Ellington in Pines
like there was nothing else: no muesli nor porridge,
just Ellington and Pines and so it seemed
I needed to write you a postcard
telling you I am okay. That, yes,
it's been a sacrificial three years — but then
I come across the smell of pink soap, pine sap
stuck between cords or a greyhound
snuffing my hand and I think
I ought to write a long letter that says:
I am doing well. The forest is high
with berries that stain my boots red
like our room used to feel. And yes,
I am in woods - literal or metaphorical,
you can put me wherever is easy - in a room
where wind always wuthers or in the trunk
of a dead tree. I always put you in a dress
you never wore but I used to touch
everyday getting my shirt or tie
or sometimes I would open the door and look
at the lichen thing, wonder why it had to hang
like an unwatered fern, wonder if it ever wanted you
the way I sometimes wanted you. And, of course,
it was just a dress and it could not say. And I
was just a young man and I couldn't say,
even about a dress that did nothing but hang.
I couldn't talk about it. So, what chance
was there for us when I would walk every night
and count one thousand street lamps? If I ever woke
with Ellington and pines you know I would not
wake you and tell you, would not write it on scrap
paper and leave it for breakfast. I'd just keep
Duke Ellington in Pines in my mind; would walk with it,
take it to the pictures, buy it a pop, let it rest on my shoulder
during long journeys. I would smoke Duke Ellington
in Pines with friends and so I am today, smoking
Duke Ellington, wanting to pin him down, write him,
in pines, to you.