The Bohemian's Mantra

It's two blocks from the bus to my place,
Two flights up from urine concrete to
Two rooms and what I own: a couple
Plates, some dirty linen, books and
Records, and my clothes. I look down
At the world ending as I stir the pasta
In a pot my mother used to own. I have
A book of famous poets, and a pad
Of poems of my own, and, when I
Go to bed, I do not pray. I postulate.
One day, my poems will be famous.
I'll be dead, but that's okay. The
Bus, filled up with arty tourists,
Will not stop two blocks from here.
They'll tell the driver, “We demand
You take us to his place.”



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 13 times
Written on 2013-10-18 at 01:08

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