dave roskos | the poets are busy

the poets are busy

the poets are busy
drinking themselves
to death

metering out their breath
in blurted drunken whispers
muttering about imagined injustices
vespering volcanic through tears

elegiac in front of the liquer store at 6 a.m.
the street lamps flicking out
the metal mesh doors rolling up
a pint bottle procession
passing across formica counters
into coat pockets

if the poet had something to sell
he’d hock it

make a crack pipe
out of foil to parch
spent lips upon

get a grip
or be gone

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