Lonely sophist
Dining at the Roxy
Staying at the Kent Hotel
on Stark and SW 11th
Where bums fall
Into bottles of port
And poets tiredly
Remember their pasts
Shunning their contemporaries.
Remain anonymous at
The Kent Hotel, all in
The shadow of the city
Where poets mourn tiredly
The hour of my death,
Portland is passing like
The sinews of so many
Cities, streets and avenues
Sinking back into earth
Among shattered wine
Bottles and confused
Notes from lovers, old
Shopping lists the
Products of which we
Are.
I in my claw-footed
Tub, I peering over the
Fire escape, or over
The Roxy's counter
Cast into the lines
Of city streets and
Faces, enough to
Kill 1,000 pigeons.
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