Poem Monkey

I have
a manual typewriter
under a small tent
outside
in the open air.

You step up
and give me
five bucks.

You say,

"Write me a poem,
monkey;
write one
about
my
dirty socks."

I say,

"Yeah,
I can
write
a poem
about that:"

his wife is asleep
and he sits
on the edge
of the bed
in the
dark.
he quietly removes
his shoes
and his dirty
socks.

he can still
smell
the other
woman's
perfume
on his fingers
lingering
in the
heavy darkness.

"Anything at all,"

I say,
folding the five,
as you walk
away
with
your
wife.


**PM**