Monday, August 31, 1981

POEM TO THE MAN NEXT DOOR

POEM TO THE MAN NEXT DOOR

Newly divorced, you sit inside
listening to country and western.
The cabin, smaller than life.
Your possessions spill out the door,
And your wife comes to visit with the kids.
You thought about having the two,
maybe three kids with you,
but something came up.
Maybe it was the trailer
and the old truck you like to take fishing,
or the motorcycle,
or maybe it was the job that stopped you.
Newly impoverished,
you wear your genitals on your heart,
hoping someone will notice.
And the dog peed on the tires
of one of your lovers
the next morning.
When the toaster oven dings
you consider answering the phone.
But the game on TV
is winding down to a conclusion.

8/1981
10/15/2015

I thought that I typed this poem up before, here's the original hand-written copy from Port Townsend, so that definitively dates it; this is an original draft, the final poem probably had different line breaks, and revisions, so this is a placeholder until I find my old work.


No comments: