Is and Was

By Frederick Bosoy

A man with his sight
stripped. Carrying a big
stick, with a correspondingly
tight grip. And she won’t
respond, because he’s not
the vagabond he used
to be. Juicy and abrasive,
like tobacco behind
the lower lip. Gums
with plaque, breath stinks
like coffee, black and running
on a slow drip.

Noose tight, call it a leash
for a life replete with sordid greed,
A glorified sieve –
Flood him with love,
He makes waste of all he receives.

Chilling but barely even dating –
Debating, if it’s better to be alone,
than be in love and hate it.

A father’s son, and maybe
a blunder—Big Bang,
million pieces asunder.
A sausage stuffer, a life
filled with wrong numbers.

An inventor of sorts,
tender and sore,
loose with his gender,
living life for the next bender.
Not exactly someone
you might remember, but
recently it’s been warm in December.


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