I wonder what this guy was like,

drunk and all worked up

about a few indolent courtesans

and the abuse of genius.

I can see him raving

in the big cypress trees

down by the river,

jousting with the ornate dragons

of his thousand year old poems,

or chasing a vision of magnificent horses

through rush hour, intense and poor,

a sunset scavenger, unable to change,

dirty and hung over, watching the rich women

who read his poems and would not have him,

stalking their delicate processions,

engrossed in the red silk of their gowns.