Poems of the day 11.11.08

a couple soon-to-bes in The winter issue of The Smoking Poet

why writers are like lovers

our dirty little sport
of friendship
still gets me.

we are children
slinging mud
and we are pound and eliot
at each other’s throats
on a rickety french balcony

(okay, for the sake of argument
i will be pound)

when will it end, old friend?
when we are codgers
throwing canes
instead of poems?

or now when the cup of
our golden daydreams
sit on etched platters
placed before our salivating mouths?

i hope never
on both accounts

because it would be a shame
to hate your beautiful words
from the nosebleed seats


float on, okay

we have a sip
on the scotch
hear the buzz
of the fan
the hum of the
the refrigerator
then i ask her
how it went
at the doctor’s
and she said
it went fine
the breasts are fine
the insides are fine
everything is fine
then i ask her
if she talked
to the doctor
about us
having babies
and she said
no
not based on last
night’s conversation
in the bar
and i said
okay
then we had
another sip
on the scotch
heard the buzz
of the fan
the hum of the
refrigerator
and i said
maybe next year
we’ll think about
going to venice
for a week
right before the
summer comes
again.