The worst poets are the poets.
Here they come. Looking for money.
James Oswald III has some.
Workshop your poems with a mountain view.
Oswald’s retreat. Make it new.
Do you want to buy my book?
Look at my face. No. Don’t look.
A poet says scientists are flawed
And human, fishing for money, too.
Oswald waves him off. Let’s see your manuscript.
Fees collected. Now the foot is on the other shoe.
After so many loves, and my experience,
I write poems three by three, and two by two,
For James. Charming man. Wouldn’t it be
Lovely if we were closer to the sea?
The books. The retreat. It’s so tidy.
The women are serious and drink tea.
Thank you. Fuck. Only whiskey for me.
To break into a dance for a mountain view
Somewhere in Italy. Breathe the air.
Bats at dusk. There’s poetry there.
Have you seen the alterations to the view?
Do you want mountains? Or will the poems do?