POETS EVEN LESS

most days i want to grab

you by your art-

work and give you

positive reviews until you

lose your sense of self-

worthlessness. it’s true

nobody likes poetry, and

poets even less. which begs

the question for both of us:

instead of verse why not try

making some other kind of mess?

OR SO I IMAGINE

as you get closer to dying

and only if you are lucky you

reach this point of sky-

mind, where life begins

to run in the background --

your thoughts become the clouds

flying past as you

recline, leaving

something or other

that was here

behind, and you

move into the space of everything

left still to find.

MORE OF A DOG PERSON

on days off i prowl

the neighborhood wondering

how some men i pass

perched on broken chairs

sit and stare at the street

all day long, like cats

with lives to spare,

looking like they haven’t

a care in the world. that i don’t

imagine they might have worries

tells you where my head is at.

maybe i am the lucky cat.