A POOR MAN’S POEM by Bart Wolffe
A pauper’s decadence, sound of raindrops
Affording company on a broken umbrella,
Unaccusing as the bench and a bottle of Spanish fizz
In the same hand clutching a soggy smoke
And – oh – the glory of no God but the night,
No policeman in sight,
Just a snakeskin of lamplight
Spilling down his throat,
Relief, no-one needs his answer why,
His stale clothes a dog-eared comfort zone
As is his unshaven chin.
Sometimes, it is so good to be alone.
Another swill of wine, another hand-rolled cigarette,
A poor man’s simplest heaven, a proper poem.
Source: A poor man’s poem