the poet

leered out his window.

There were crowds, down there

He would have to move-out to Nebraska

and build a fence like JD Salinger.

His mother warned him in college, “Don’t get a woman pregnant.”

and he didn’t. He always listened to his mother.

Now, his best friend was paying child support to two different mothers

and was working for UPS,

while he (the poet) rented a small room on the third floor

and wrote poetry.

The checks kept coming in, not in large amounts

but in small sums

just enough to pay the rent

eat what he wanted

and take girls out.

The problem was, his fame was growing, like a child

that ate, pooped, and had a mind of its own.

Sometimes, he felt, held hostage

because

if he left his ivory tower

the common folk

would want

a miracle, an autograph

and he just hated to use his power, willy-nilly.

It was true

at one point in his library explorations

he stumbled upon the occult

and learned secrets inside his room that should not be learned.

Tell young boys that they will learn how to make a girl drop their panties

and you won’t be able to keep them out of school

but they cannot be fooled. They know they will be learning about the opposite:

how to respect a fully-clothed woman from afar.

Oh—the poet had learned to be unconventional.

His mother would not be happy with him now.

There were panties in his bed and panties on his floor

He could’ve opened up an underwear store (red ones, pink ones, lacy ones, invisible ones)

The girls gave them to him, as mementoes.

He gave them his creativity.

He was becoming more famous now, and the child was a madman

who might murder him in his sleep.

He couldn’t stop writing.

It was the blood that circulated his body and went to his brain

It was his shriveled soul

It was all his hopes and dreams

come true.