WAITING FOR WORDS.

A POET AND HIS WAITING FOR WORDS.

He sits at the old typewriter
Waiting for the words to come,
Listening to Tango music on

The battered radio, smoking,
Peering out the window at
The passing dames, the waging

Behinds, the smooth long legs,
The fine figures, a bottle of wine
By his side, half full, but still

The words don’t come, just the
Music, the dames and the half
Smoked cigarette and a drawer

Of rejection slips and reader’s
Letters praising, complaining,
Suggesting how to improve

The poems, how best to write,
How to put things down, how
Not to, and all crammed into

The drawer with cigarette butts
And phlegm and old betting slips
And a bent photo of his first love,

Her eyes big blueberries. But still
No words, just the dames, the Tango,
The memory of long lost lovers and

W****s and his father bellowing and
His mother covering a bruised eye. Still
No words, just a wet fart and deep sigh.