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Death And Landlords And The Dissolution Of Dreams She writes me long and rambling letters in which she tells me I’m a poet and I feel I should write her back and tell her in truth I am only afraid of people and the ringing of telephones and alarms and I am only looking for a quiet place to hide from death and landlords and the dissolution of dreams my failings powers and my aging face she calls me a poet and I only want a tall bloody mary at three in the afternoon I only want to get lost in this lonely city to become one with the dirty alleys and sidewalks the tall gray buildings against the tall gray sky I only want a barful of faces I’ve never seen I want a jukebox with sad and honest songs and a five dollar bill to feed it she calls me a poet and I only want the woman at the back of the bus to stop talking so loud and I only want to be forgiven for my inability to love she calls me a poet but I don’t know how to write a poem about the hippie girl with the bloody face stumbling down Haight Street on a Monday afternoon and I don’t know how to write a poem about the stuttering man who survived the Trade Center Bombings or the woman at the back of the bus who won’t stop talking too loud she calls me a poet and I only want to walk through these doors order a drink look around and see something other than sad old men. |