The Paperback Writer’s Swan Song Muse
I watch the saddest man in the
universe shuffle along the cold
iron-hearted streets, splitting
dirty fingernails to the cusp as
he picks at black gum and tar hoping
to free all his long abscessed dreams.
His long matted gray hair and beard painfully
dredded with none of the Rasta love freezes
to his face in the indifferent northern city’s winter.
In the mirror reflected in my eyes, I see him in
a lonely corner of the city library wrapped in shredded
rags as much dirt and dust as they are cloth. I hear
his futile taps on the old Underwood as his sad and
lonely words appear as weak life-sparks on my screen
as brutal and lost as the damaged neural-city in my head
he resides in. His eyes, long lunatic, spit the same fire as
the one in mine.