Thursday, December 17, 2015

A Poet Apart

A Poet Apart

somewhere a man sits
in his chair
contemplating a sad belly

dark stubble creeps on his jaw
a stubborn set against it all
eyelids low reveal none
none of the bad hangovers
that crowd the memory
and corrode perception

his pen opens a poem
only to close upon the mystery
of lingering loneliness

the tilt of his head a perfect egg
bright against evening shadows
words beat the winter about him
exposing veins where rages blood
and beer flooding plains of love and loath

crude honesty leaves no gap for fresh air
it slaps the truth into the cracks
ink over vodka laced in smoke
a perfect cocktail of senses
to follow the clock around

to earn that rare recognition
in a stranger's pupil
a man a chair one poem

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