Poet For Hire

I saw him sitting there, typing away,
look of concentration under his hair, focusing.
You could tell he was a "poet for hire."
Anyone walking by could see him;
had a group of women gathered 'round
and wearing something vaudevillian.

My poetry teacher in college would say
if you could work hard there,
poems would be made, perhaps not done,
but still, they'd come, and the work would show,
if you worked at the writing -- Plus, Poetry's Fun!
Just like you and you're boys and girls
eating that pizza -- pizza Sicilian.

But flouting poetry's sort of "Agatha Christie" reputation
I'd point to the dictionary thesaurus book station
He had I'm not sure, but yes it was classic,
The old school writer that he clinked with --
with the old school classic type writer he clinked with--
Makes it much nicer for the moment of grace;

What would you write for a girl on the street?
The typewriter you meet -- a chance in a billion --

I gave pause for a second, I'd give money for millions.

Falling Girl

Like a big old crack of the bat,
I heard her when she came,
Falling outside. She fell outside,
On the steps. I knew who it was
Because she always showed up around 9
And it was because she was done work.

Silver

The mountain that she climbed was enormous.

The child that I raised is the littlest boy but eating.

I always encourage him to eat but I gave him that
thistling, sparklebath, and ever since he choked on the shampoo
he's never taken to imbruing his vegetables quite the same.

My boy will be strong yet, and he'll stack wood.
The strong kind of boy you want from a man.
I'd be the father of the year, if I only had a girl.
Then he'd have a sister to play with, but who knows
how that would go. They'd probably get along some
of the time, and other times not so much,
if what I hear is true.

I guess you can only put so much stock in those
things though.

-Ben Rautenberg