Thursday, November 11, 2021


 Poem #33

If not for you

 there would be no need for these words

I am no poet.

Just a worn down hack,

A burned out doc

Half a bottle of Beaujolais

Into a lonesome night at a desk,

Chet Baker balming my headphoned head,

Wasting hours scratching out derivative dirges

About the most conventional banalities

That, immediately upon completion,

                                                        tend to self-combust.

The only time it ever feels good

Piling up stanzas and lines, 

Is when I’ve finished one

That I’ve written just for you.   


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