The End In Denny's

Taste

They nailed Millay in later life

For anti-fascist poems.

Pro-fascist would have

Made them happier.

America has got no taste -

The critics never had it.

Forgotten now for Robert Frost,

Sondheim and Bukowski.

No one's ever published me,

So I must have no talent.

But I don't sing of blood lust

And my toilet backing up.

 

Rhythm

I hope I have a knack for rhythm.

For me it's practice, not innate.

And since the poem of my youth

(Like the “Fairy Queen” for Keats)

Thus caught, it was the love

Of my poetic life.
Meter always was inborn,

Coming fluently and flawless.

But rhythm is the burden of my soul

Though difficult.

 

The End In Denny's

How sweet to be alone and quiet.

He's asleep

At home. We had an argument.

The argument is over.

I'm in Denny's. And I'll leave

In just five minutes more.

It's 2. The bars are closing.

The drunks are coming in.

Saturday and I forgot -

Forgot and came to Denny's.

How bleak the morning started out,

And now I cannot sleep.

The poets that Americans

Embrace, then disavow,

At last embracing no one.

The end of art is now.