The Racket-ty Life

Tom sets

a barfly's poems

to music played

on pawn-shop

instruments

by tramps, drunks

and palookas.

Mean streets meander

through every city:

if that’s your latitude

- let’s walk awhile

through souk, bazaar,

stube and bardak;

places where the women

wear some clothes

but not many

and the drinks

cost more than

Evian at the Ritz.

In bars with booths:

outsiders are inside

at the time

of the last plague

when the blame

fell on those out

-siders shoulders.

Watching, waiting

writing things down

making things up.

Drinking, ducking,

diving for pearls

among swine like us.

We make our

own poetry

out of history

and lies,

then sing it at the moon.