In a long decade of poverty
I could not rub two nickels together
to make one
blessed
dime.

Yet my bed stayed quite warm
and
good work was done between and about
the
sheets.

There were times of bounty,
in an obliquely spiritual sense,
like smoking gifted cigarettes
and drinking mud brown bottles
on the porch with the riffraff
at three am.

Along the outer edge
of the circling drain
there is a certain frivolity:
decks of cards
pool cues and
beanbags.

All good things,

you know.

Now its the noon-day sun
and wistful remembrances
of vagabond evenings with
no harm done.

You can't go home
again.