WHY POETRY GETS
Your bicycle is not a cabriolet,
and this steam-sickle blowing smoke
comes up from beneath the street.
Listen up, philosopher-king, any
of it can still scald. Be careful
where you ride.
This guy named Axel Rose was a
friend of mine, but boy was he
a jerk. Every time he came around
it was raining cats and dogs.
We'd sit there, in my shed, and
talk about motorcycles and
ever really happened.
There's no longer a dog in the
doghouse. No one keeps them
outside any more.