The Heavy Poet

PHILIP BOOTH

THE HEAVY POET

Bunged-up like any general

of Plato's legion, his tongue smoked

with morning shots, the heavy poet

wakes blurred in a new motel.

He dresses himself, still dogged

by creditors, forgetting to zip;

the girl gone from his naked bed,

and no number to dial for help.

Breakfast is now being served.

He eats at his own last poem,

unsure if it's summer, or time

for summer, if that's what he loved.

The clock travails and spills; those birds

like fireworks he once heard burble

explode in his bed's mirror. He reads

his shadow sliding down the wall.