This Old Man
No one wanted his poetry
His only appearance more or less
Permanently in print
Was the sign scrawled outside his door
That began
This government
Those thieving bastards
The poems themselves
After endless rejection
He tore into pieces
And flung into the wind
Where they would from time to time
Reappear
Blown against wet windows
Or stuck to a shoe
And when held to the light
Read in fading phrases
Things like
Time passeth and
I lost her and
He loved
This article appears in January 2010.
