Day 353: Some Of Them Wrote Poetry

The old-time smokers have gone away.

Huffing and puffing

amid whirligigs and smoke rings,
they've drawn the final breath.

Some of them wrote poetry,

recited it on corners, like Bleeker Street and 4th,

in the Dark Dragon Cafe,

under sparking wheels of the Third-Avenue El,

in the chatty waters of Bethesda Fountain.

The old-time boozers are also gone.

Slurring their words in the crapulence

of glugging it down with a chaser,
they've taken the final swig.

Some of them wrote poetry,

published it on yellow flyers,

on discarded napkins,

in bathroom stalls,

in cold running sweat on Jack Daniel's neck.

Old-time angry people have also taken leave.

Shadowboxing and tongue-lashing
phantom and entia alike,

they've broken the final straw.

Some of them wrote poetry, 

whooped and yammered it on Avenue D,

in precinct holding cells,

on the Brooklyn Bridge,

in the very last pew of St. Mark's Church.

It's quiet now and poetless

since all these poets are gone.

The swooshing brooms

and snoozy humdrum

of day after day

have shushed

at last

their tuneful furor

and the pregnant silence

that once gave them voice

on the snaggy rock of poetry's precipice.