Last night, in the cigar room with a Cusano 18, writing a poem,
the one posted on refrigerators, telephone
poles, spray painted on the side of cars,
tattooed to a tongue, literally,
and editing a poem,
But We Are Bankrupt By The Bland,
by poets who are so into poetry
they drive Nissan Stanzas, buy
only local, organic, overpriced products,
wear glasses that look like dashes
and leather-patched tweed blazers.
I drank an Oregon Chai tea which, by the way, went beautifully with the Cusano. When I came out it had snowed. Not much, just a quarter inch. But it was snowing hard enough to cover my tracks fifteen feet back. As soon as I closed my door at home it stopped. It covered everything. It was expected. It was late.