the poet sits on a dark park bench
drinking mad dog 2020 with a drunk
a crumpled penthouse invite
in his pocket
the clever ones complain
while drinking champagne
impressed with themselves for changing
poetry's worn out face:
when metaphors could be understood
they were no good
the drunk never puts another
in his place
this man of the streets got the beat
he knows all carts and cargo weigh the same
he sits with just one face his red eyes watching
those hard-yoked eyes have seen it all before
he's seen the new emperors
in their fashionable clothes
ragged rumplestiltskins failing
to spin their straw to gold
the moon is missing the booze is gone
the poet pats the old drunk's hands,
grateful,
before going home to write
a pulitzer prize winner poem
unconcerned with the causes of clever
just thinking about sitting on a dark park bench
finding a face for that moon