THEY CAN ONLY DREAM
concave plastic notel open both ends
the honeymoon suite for my poetry friends
efficient as a mobile home that rolls
rocks when the drunk kicks it on his way past
hums when some bum sicks up all over it
and this is home to the best poet I know
and he has holes in the soles of his shoes
and wears musty and old hand me down clothes
and he lives in a plastic pipe that rolls
he and his princess the poetess goddess
they scrawl their poetry on the concave walls
in a shared red and blue blood mixed with love
propped up against the square peg plywood door
they optimise their day writing poetry
newsprint curtains blankets street sheets scream same
the best poet in the world and his princess
the treacherous candle burning both ends
they can only dream about a hot bath
the only shower they get is the rain
out there alone but not lonely white cold
200509Originally posted here.
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