Rogue Poet

Rogue Poet waking
to another morn.
Smells the city
garbage, smoke,and
Feels the chilling cold
behind the dumpster.

Brunch of stale bread,
behind the East End bakery.
Lunch a swig of port
no meat, no protein diet.
An evening soiree with
other poets
at the university
of hard knocks...

But still the stub penciled poems
come, between
the times
of disordered thought.

But free from the constraints
of trope and critic,
his poetry
speaks to those
dispossessed of earthly gain
huddling around
the beggars brazier.



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