I had a big book of haikus
that I lost to homelessness
which is a haiku in itself
but it hurts too much
to write it
I cried when Leonard Cohen died
though I never knew him
thankfully, I know Bob Dylan
will never die
I’ll never get in The New Yorker
I’m a poet in the dark
smoking by your car
and it looks to you
like I might steal it
I have a pen name-Bic
just kidding, it’s not that stupid
though it should be
frankly, I don’t know what I’m doing
on the page
I’m an unlicensed driver
I’m a hit and run
I don’t know if poetry
has been good to me
but I have been good to it
I write this in pen
that looks like notes of music
I find poems better smeared
across the page
with the utmost clarity
I’d like to die in a poem
