There is no place in society
For a man like me,
Whose past is full of crazy errors
And so much idleness.
The jobs I can get
Will drive me crazy again,
With boredom and competition.
So I sit alone in my parents’ house,
And through the window watch
The falling rain. I can’t help but think
There must be some job out there
For me. Until I find it, I’ll sit right here
And write my foolish poetry.
Thinking that money and fame
are beyond my reach, I look at
The pine trees, which are ghostly through
The heavy downpour. No one expects
Much from them. Their job is simply
To grow. With roots as shallow
As mine, is it any wonder I am still
Living in my parent’s house?
Verses like these don’t impress
Editors much. They see them
All the time, and disregard them
As quickly as a lion’s tail brushes
Away a fly. They want to be
Excited, titillated, enthralled.
Meanwhile, I sit here under my blanket,
Watching through the window
As the rain falls. Full-bellied from
Potato chips, I think of how
I wasted my youth on cheap pleasures—
Wine, poetry, and cigarettes.
And people who either wanted to use me
Or made a joke of me at best,
And how, at thirty-six, I have had only
One lover, and only a few love-making
Sessions under my belt.
Now, half the time I am asleep,
And the other half, on the verge of sleeping.
I’ll probably grow old here, and if not,
I’ll grow old in some dingy room.
No visitors, no lovers, just poetry,
Bottles of wine, sickness, hopelessness,
And gloom.
