They’re always askin’ me
“When’s your book coming out?”
and I tell them
“Next month. I’m working on it.
Next year. You just wait ….”
The postman, the neighbor, my bartender
the neighbor’s kid, the barber, my alter ego.
I should just come clean
say what I mean – “Never.”
Books are overrated.
The minute you finish one
the thing is dead, rotting
and then what?
So the notebooks and scratchins
pile up in the back closet
and the word stays alive in me
as I, like any good poet
find better ways to lie.
