poet of the common

 
should put down his pen & take up honest work

sweat the angry sweat of a bricklayer or a gravedigger

because a poem is not a shelter for the living
nor a worthy crypt for the venerable bones of the dead

it’s an old cigar box that you drop love into, along with
loose change & divebar matchbooks
there is no other place to put it –

and a love affair doesn’t cover much ground when you
walk it alone.  like slow dancing with a dream –
nothing sweet & solid & warm in your arms
when you stop dreaming

writes his poems of common romance & common heartbreak
makes a wish that she will find them & discover his uncommon
passion – but maybe she never will

‘Feather of lead, bright smoke. cold fire…’ Shakespeare’s
Romeo knew that burden, whose heart was lost to Juliet

considers the crime of rape, seriously. then she would know
the insanity, the intensity of his desire for her. she would feel
the strength of his body against hers. even if he suffers for it,
it’s no worse than he’s suffering now

poetry is a poor substitute for a lover, & solitude
has walls thicker than a Tijuana prison