Someone -- Verlaine, I think --
Who, after all, did more than
Drink absinthe and
Shoot Rimbaud and
Live in a house with
His mother and four
Unborn brothers in bottles
On a kitchen shelf and
Drink absinthe --
Said a poem is never finished;
Just abandoned
But I dunno. Some poems
Of mine have done
The abandoning themselves.
After I've been faithful
For years, one morning
They're clean gone without
Even a note only
To turn up in the arms
Of Martin Tupper who
Is wheezing with laughter, saying
"Really? He thought
You were a sonnet?"
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