Last Real Poet

The last real poet walked into a bar called America

Where I sat most mornings drawing maps on napkins

Where the gray light punched through windows yellow from decades of Marlboros

Ate up your nerves like a two-toothed kid hungry for candy

The poet approached the bartender and said

"OK, bartender, give me what you got, if you've got any"

The barman let it bleed

Four long shots of courage and cool and good luck and chutzpah

The poet swallowed this poison and wheezed while I watched from my napkins

While in the halls over our heads