An Incident At Denny's

An Incident At Denny's

People go insane

Unless you love their gods,

Vote the way they voted

And join they're little herd.

I felt good this morning

In Denny's close to six,

Wrote a couple poems,

Was getting set to leave.

Saw a group of studs

Cashing out their checks,

Decided I would wait

Til all of them were gone.

But went up anyway.

They were at the door.

They jeered at me and hollered.

I just looked straight ahead.

Made it to my car

And drove away relieved,

My mood completely ruined.

Their counterpart in life

Is the hateful citizen

In a little town -

Nation, god and family -

No immigrants or gays.

When I stand my ground

It reduces me to sh-t -

I feel totally alone

And absolutely wrong.

Dead On

Driving to Denny's, a fingernail moon

Floats like a star in a midnight lagoon.

It isn't quite morning, no light in the skies.

What changes the feelings when somebody dies?

And phony emotion when he goes away,

Or anger and tedium if he should stay.

Talent endures. Sometimes it does.

Lloyd Webber is magic – or anyway was.

Such beautiful music to come from the pen

Of a man who may never write music again.

No Pollyanna – Nor poems about

Miserable anger – and letting it out.

17 years – I mangled my fate

Filling my books with a cynical hate.

But there are others – consider the rest -

Morning is when I write poesy best.

Exeter

Everyone in Exeter

Would like to see me dead.

I have written poems

That none of them has read.

I aroused their fury.

I did not go war.

He did not go either,

So what's his anger for?

Not a soul in Exeter

Believes me halfway good.

I left their country village

The instant when I could.

This hateful little hamlet

Of god and grapes and corn

Is nothing more to me

Than somewhere I was born.

 

At Night

It's happened twice at Denny's,

Every time at night -

Jeered by some goons

Looking for a fight.

I felt a rush of anger

And a lot of fright.

America likes bullies

Who cannot read or write.

They're featured in the movies.

They're recognized on sight.

Some Americans are nice.

The rest are not too bright.

Kern

Jerry wrote such gentle music.

Quiet Kern was Rodgers' hero.

Mild and almost tuneless.

But the tunes were there like bones,

Skeletons like filaments

In gold and tiny fishes

Swimming through the ether.

Even god could hear them sung.