A poor man’s poem

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

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