Hunched over a typewriter, On the subway platform. A makeshift table— $10 a poem. Any subject, Any form. Life is changing. Last train out the city. $20 in my pocket— All I own. Like a poem from his page, My soul is torn. Peering through the windowed doors— Hunched over a typewriter, Typing a poem I could not afford. $20 still in my pocket— I should’ve spent on that poem. I guess I’ll have to write my own.
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Take a guided tour through the aisles of the Dreamsmith Library.
All works can be found here!
Saw one of these poets in Central Park. I actually regret not going up to him. Nice poem.