Poetry is hunger and protest.
Not pretty sounds
but a howl, a scowl
a wake up call for a drunk
in a hotel with
pretty lies and lights
and a roulette table
that never pays out but
keeps going round and round and round .
Poetry is a cry, a picture
that hopes to make the world
ashamed
that hopes to make the world
– even one man
come out of that hotel
and into the sunlight
of acceptance
and each moment thereafter
be good
and each day thereafter
have a thought of the good.
Poetry is one hand slapping
the feckless face of man unkind.
