I have no whores with broken heels
to write about.
I am not famous among the flop houses.
I did not spend last night or last year
on the street or in some
roach infested place which
would mean so much in a modern poem.
I have not drunk myself to sleep.
I am not Bukowski, no one showed up
at my door,
no whores to quote in this or any other
I did not abandon all to head to Paris like Ernest,
was not caged and carried through half filled or
half empty streets.
I have thrown my angst against cubicle walls,
factory floors, subdivisions, all
benignly taking their toll.
It’s a quiet desperation which
whores and flophouses.