A New Poem

He wasn't
exactly
a hustler

but he had
an easy way
with women

and a hard
time with whiskey
and told a

funny joke.

He never
ever chased them
or even thought...


Sometimes
in the bars they'd
slide on over

and fall
in love with
the words

that he spoke.
With the poems
about other

women.

He would sit
and talk and smile
in that

way that he had.

Later, sometimes,
he would take them
to their beds

but it was
only the booze that
he cared for.

The next night
would bring a different
bar, another girl,

a new poem.

Easy To Be The Poem

It was so easy
to be the poem.

To be the
small town
big family
boy flying
kites in
lonesome
cotton fields.

It was
easy to be
the poem.

To be
the happy man
fresh with love,
in love with
the girl
he met in college
the mother
of children
adored.

So very easy
to be
the poem.

Harder now
it seems
to be the poet.

If the Delta fields
were lonesome
then the grey
city sidewalks
are lonely.

Harder.

The haunting
taunting
memories of
painful separations

foggy flip
stomach mornings-
head pounding-
in line with other
stinking tramps
full of doubt
about the words
that I write.

So much
harder
to be the poet.

The days
spent asking
strangers to reject.
Nights filled
with crumpled pages
and a long slow
dance with
pain and sadness.

And bourbon and dope.

Harder
to be the poet
than the
poem.