ezs poetry

The sky, a mullet gray
whips my face as I ride along
not too cool
the weatherman says
but  I feel it
I feel it

finally I enter
as I go to my favored seat
I pick up a book
Ginsberg, some twenty years' dead
whispers into my ear

He speaks to me of Paterson
ruined citystate
where his mother died
alone
poor tattered madwoman

and he sat there
not knowing how to reach her.

©2017