Tuesday, September 14, 2010
for Liz French
I was sitting in what passes for my office
on the second floor of run down building
over a bad Chinese restaurant on Wilshire
& about to crack open the bottle I keep in my desk drawer
when she walked in. She sat down across from me
& dropped her cigarette in the ashtray.
I poked at the smoking stub with a pencil, & said,
"I suppose your name is Velma."
"How'd ya guess?" she said. "I suppose
you're a private investigator,
like it says in chipped paint on your door."
Labels: poem, WFMU
"If a nation expects to be ignorant and free, in a state of civilization, it expects what never was and never will be." Thomas Jefferson