Walking aimlessly in rubber sandals,
White baggy faded jeans, shirt tucked inside,
He stops at the curbstone and marvels
At the drifting clouds.
Carrying Kierkegaard’s, Fear and Trembling,
And Nietzsche’s, The Gay Science, he goes
From café to café, the books clenched,
Bulging like biceps.
Reading a page here and there
Without understanding a word,
He sighs and wonders at the dead
Autumn branch outside the window.
Succumbing himself to long bouts of silence,
He broods, searching for metaphors.
Fame and immortality stand at his doorstep,
A lichen-encrusted bust breathes in his cupboard,
Staring at him with the eyes of an old heron
Through the swirl of dingy, foul air.
Bohemian lifestyle gently taps on his shoulders,
The rented room, like rotten eggs, stinks.
He lets his hair grow, he ignores his razor.
Thin and pimply, sweaty palms, breath sour
From smoking too many Camels,
He haunts the streets searching for his own face.
The fire in his eyes is unsettling.
The storm in his heart is raging.
He imagines himself in a reading,
Long cigarette holder held in styled affectation,
Surrounded by dewy-eyed college girls,
Marveling at their sleek black dresses
And protruding asses.
Smoking and drinking, drinking and smoking,
He zonks-out on the couch.
Kierkegaard falls on his chest,
Nietzsche slips from his palm—
Yet deep inside he’s happy and content
Because he knows that he’s a poet,
And right now he’s too exhausted to give a damn
To what I have to say.