1.11.2010

Writers and the women who've loved them.

There's a black-and-white
photograph in the first few pages
of my Robinson Jeffers book.
He's sitting in a wooden chair
wearing a checkered suit
and loosened white collar
reciting lines to his equally withered wife
as she transcribes his poetry.
He went blind at the end, the poor old hawk.

And the same with my first friend Fyodor.
Good ol' Dos lost his vision, too
but he had a hot young vixen
one third of his age
to write his last lines down.
That final masterpiece of his
never made it to the publisher.
The experts say it was supposed to be
the sequel to "Brothers K", but
I'd like to think that it was something
pornographic, something mildly obscene
just to get that little honey's panties
in a frenzy. That beard didn't reek
of vodka alone when they put
Dostoyevsky in the ground.

Sorry, Robbie.
The Russky's got you beat.
But hey, if it's any consolation
I'm lucky if my old lady
even let's me use the damn typer
since the clickety-clack conflicts
with her beauty sleep.
She's a keeper, though. I swear it.
I'll just need a room to write in
when it's time to buy a house.

Game. Set. Match.
And if she were here
I'd be sleeping on the couch.

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