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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