trying to write a poem
in a lady's bedroom
(onions on my breath)
while she cuts a dress out of freshly bought material.
I suppose, as material
I'm not so fresh,
especially with onions
on my breath.
Well, let's see -
there's a lady in Echo Park,
one in Pasedena, one in Sacramento, on on Harvard Ave.
perhaps one of them would be more interested
in me
than in a dress ( for a while, anyhow).
meanwhile I sit in this lady's bedroom
by a hot window
while she sits at her
sewing machine.
here, she said, here's a
paper and pen,
write something.
all right, Ill be kind:
some ladies fuck like mink
and dance like nymphs
and some create
nice dresses and lonely poets
on hot July afternoons .
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