SLUMMING
My poems were like old friends
fallen on hard times.
They were standing around
in a vacant lot
between two old houses,
I drove up in my shiny car.
They recognized me
and came over
draped in their old clothes.
We were all embarrassed.
The car purred
like the promise of leaving.
I said a few words
and they smiled
but with a little irony
or maybe pain.
I said
I’ll see you round.
They said
we’ll be here.