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
if he left his ivory tower
the common folk
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