Not certain I’ll ever find enough time to pen another novel but I continue to carve hours out of each week to write verse, which to many is an utter waste of time. I am not so foolish as to waste my breath convincing anyone of its merit. I know why I write poetry. Poetry is where I take risks, indulge my quirks, alter my old order, find inspiration. It sustains me.

SALOON

Home away from home
To maul his favourite barfly,
The one who’s heard it all.
Meek dick taker. Instant co-spiralee.

No-guff companion, quickly enamored
Of her salient recycled mate.
Faithful ego extension, she waits
Patiently, fourth in line.

It’s the reckless man
That underestimates her pale grip,
Courts the highly functioning
Simpering angel face, dressed up

To impersonate a pure silk purse.
He orders a beer. “Have a cup of cyanide,”
Says the proprietor, “it goes down quicker,
Delivers a merciful fate.”