Copyright 2010 Gordon Kuhn

Poet in the Rain

How came thee to this point in time

without a nickel or a single dime

no quarters lined in pockets bare

to stand or sit alone, to outward stare

out at embarrassed traffic passing you,

for you are not the chosen pleasant view

of faces peering through shut glass panes

as traffic moves slowly along the lanes

and sometimes one will stop and bid you take

some change, a dollar, more as though it might be your last, final stake

in life, which for you, my friend, has turned most foul

while you sit and wait as does some hungry owl

with sign proclaiming false true,

to offer work for only food.

Your brain, locked, cooked, stewed

no creative juices lurking there

and so you sit and simply stare

blankly, bleakly, lifeless out through the open air

for you have not the fortitude, the grit, the fight

lost somewhere between the dark and the light

of your life’s strangled nightmare thoroughfare

and so you sit and simply stare.

But as I pass your pitiful, lonely lair

and our eyes touch each the other’s sight

I must confess I can naught make so light

that in your place I am likewise lurking there

but, my lonely friend, I refuse to sit and stare.

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