More By This Poet
After his ham & cheese in the drape factory cafeteria,
having slipped by the bald shipping foreman
to ride a rattling elevator to the attic
where doves flicker into the massive eaves
and where piled boxes of out-of-style
cotton and lace won’t ever be
The days are dog-eared, the edges torn,
ragged—like those pages
I ripped once out of library books,
for their photos
of Vallejo and bootless Robert Johnson.
A fine needs paying now
it’s true, but
not by me.
I am no more guilty
than that thrush is
who sits there stripping...