my critics

first it was:
you’re always writing poems about
drinking and whores and
ugly things.

now it is:
you’re writing an awful lot
of poems
about
death.

next it will
be:   the son of a bitch is
dead, he never could write
anyhow.

but 19 whores will weep
into their
wine
and
the only thing
left to read
will be
The National
Enquirer.