tossing chapbooks from the porch
	      remembering Billy Strayhorn

lots of poets think they're good;
lots of good ones doubt it

they regret and prize nothing 
as the need to write  

entertainers, smooth as grapes
urges like a date that rapes
talented crafters, hooking rugs
tortured prisoners tossing doves

the sky is blush 
above our bards,
hued with nerve 
they think and write

and the ground moves as i type,
thumped with running then the pause
as this or that one drops the yen
and the next one picks it up again
relaying images toward the line
building airy, entendred rhyme

this honors us, me and you,
but it's good to know who is who



© Copyright 2001 Peter Chapman

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