the poem is my sandy beach


			
			see me
			crimson rotund
			a hermit crab
			under a palm
			hiding from the sun

			
			the poem is my ball game
			my hard seat
			in the stands
			where I root
			albeit it softly
			for the underdog

			
			the poem is my night at the movies
			my tear-jerker
			laugh-a-minute
			kung fu
			detective drama

			
			the poem is my sporty car
			leather bucket
			five on the floor
			rag top down
			sunglasses
			hair blowing in the breeze

			
			the poem is my world tour
			my Everest
			my Death Valley
			my Hong Kong taxi
			weaving down the Champs
			past Joe's Shanghai
			past the coffee houses
			and the bars
			past the hookers
			and the homeless

			
			the poem is my love affair
			the passion
			the turmoil
			the companionship
			the loneliness

			
			the poem is my child
			nurtured
			then sent off
			to the schoolyard wars
			while I wait
			to see if he comes home
			with a bloody nose

			
			the poem is my meal
			it is not my meal-ticket

			
			the poem is my bank account
			eleven dollars
			and forty-three cents

			
			the poem is all I have
			and it is enough


			
			
			
			I'm trying to listen to "Honey"


			
			You know "Honey",
			the song about a guy
			whose wife died young
			and years later
			he's still feeling blue-oo-oo?
			The pathos of it never fails to send me
			looking for my bottle.
			And she's starting in
			on the same old theme
			about me and my son
			and how I let my grown children
			come between us,
			which couldn't be farther from the truth,
			because in my opinion,
			I've shoved them off to the side
			so I could live with her,
			but be that as it may
			I'm trying to listen to "Honey"
			and she's getting up a pretty good
			head of steam
			and I know I can't argue with her
			because I'll cook my goose
			for another week
			and we've only been talking to each other
			for two days as it is.
			So I just put my feet up
			on the coffee table
			and close my eyes and go to sleep
			until "Honey" is through.