Where are all the old
poets?
White beards with pockets
as empty
As the eyes of the ol bums
on 5th ave.
Daughters whose fingers grew heavy
with gold.
Whose skin went cold like
morning
Coffee in the breeze.

They still scribble verses
a-plenty.
On bathroom stalls, arms and
napkins.
They stay drunk on wine from
the corner store.
And make sweet love in apartment
darkness.
Only when the rain comes do they
wander.

Their notes & teeth have
yellowed.
And the bright boys now have
strange names.
Henry & Lester & Edgar & Frederick
& Vincent St. Clair.
Whose food stamps were used on
junk food banquets.
Their cats don't even call them
"friend."

Dangerous Betty whispers into her
notebook.
She has been in the kitchen
all day.
which is also her bedroom, also her workspace,
also her home.
And the door cries out a good "knock, knock,
knock."
She answers the call but finds no one
humble.

Seven old dogs tear through
the garbage.
Old lists, letters, Valentine's Day
love poems.
One reads, "Your ***** as
a Blossom."
One is blank except for "Dearest
Matthew," Dated 1983.
Six dogs scratch & snap while one chokes
on an insincere apology.

At 7:59 AM the street is
Morning bloom.
Men in suits call each other
"sir."
A mother pumps gas for $10 an
hour.
At 8:01 AM the show is
over.
Somewhere in the air are children's
voices.