City-Bird Misses the Concrete Nest
Far away from all the neon boulevards,
a wet-winged writer is twisting himself
over lonely back-roads, and bonfire
ashes. Only one sign stood for miles;
a plain liquor store white illuminating
the back of an old barn. And you'll ask
why his poetry doesn't yet bud of popcorn
honeysuckles, or flow like the bluest
cliché of river. And you’ll also ask why
he shit on your pick-up truck just before
sunrise, or why he decided to fly in your
wife’s hair and sleep. The only place in town
is a liquor store; can you actually blame him?