On Sundays

There is an angel
in Long Island
who prays for
me like my
mama always has.

The wife of a
poet friend
with devils
I guess just
like mine.

Demons of
her own once,
I'm told,
then loosed.
Her spirit burned
bright driving
shadows and
darkness.

Now they go
to church together

and this lady
from up North
in Long Island she
prays for me

on Sundays

like my woman
used to do
before I fell
from grace.

Hey man. Let me know if this works:

One takes a pen and writes "once upon a time." Another takes a pen and writes "hungry." One writes on notebook paper, another writes on cardboard. Once in a while you come across a writer who has done both, and continues to do both. There is hunger in Justin Booth's poetry, hunger as real and as stark as Sharpie ink scrawled onto an old Grey Goose box lid. Poetry and hunger ought always to be married this way, one ought always to feed the other.

haiku

This is not haiku
but true prison poems are short,
Only for the poor.