A Barbarian and a poet meet at a Bar
One who romances, one who cries for war,
Surreptitiously by chance encounter
Drunk Heine’s kicked out by Bouncer.

The big galute of a brute amused,
Turns to the poet
Asking
“How can flowery rhymes or such Lovers’ words
Ever defend against a hoard at the door
hell bent on ******?”

The poet barely shrugs saying:
“Why ask a poet who longs for kisses
From prospective lovers,
who can’t defeat his own heart
Or gain favor, Wishing cops stop Shooting,
the Streetwalkers —Carry on home.
Alas alone When we all depart…”

The Barbarian is snickering,
a guttural “Eh heh heh, ha ha…”
Poet without a crowd
Continues speaking but all the more
Performed,
Loudly out loud.

“Oh my Frenemy!  The War!—it’s not
to win in games of Men,
Become a king, be worthy of your Ken and
kingdom, the people...
   In life’s journey find yourself, perhaps
On another’s lips, in eyes—longingly looking at
You
Finally being Seen.”

(Dead air’s awkward silence.)

“Hey ****
What’s the difference between
a barbarian’s plunder &
a Poet’s passing Fame?

(The big Lug only shrugs.)

“Shakespeare is known by Name.”

“Now, Who the **** are you?”