our bland, middle class american 

stumbling around

wearies him.

he is so healthy, at 70 something,

and weary of his island life,

the years he drove the school bus,

and now the fund raisers for the library,

playing a clumsy lewis carroll 

to two rounds of applause

and a goofy jacob marley

delighting the kids.

he's tired of all that.

he wants monasticism and a woman in thrall.

he loves rachmaninoff and caol isla

finds great beauty in derelict merchants

hawking the boardwalk.

he rails at a gagged culture

that fails to nurture our nascent inner sweetness.

he doesn't see that he has it all.

doesn't know how to revel 

in the bounty of his own goodness,

the culture of his own soul.

the only culture we've got.

we don't just live out there.

we live in here, out there.