Wednesday, February 15, 2012


he wrote his last poem drunk
a man in pain that couldn't write
an unemployed wino who couldn't work
or light his cigarette

he lived in a small room of madness
living lessons never learned
an east end preacher who couldn't preach
or turn the pages

he died in a skid road hotel lost
with his sleeping bag beside him
an old poet who couldn't read
or tie his laces

1 comment:

flaubert said...

How incredibly sad, Wayne. That second stanza is quite powerful.