To a Dead Poet

Plainly stripped to the soul Quietly sitting facing a mirrored wall drinking flattery like whiskey Tossing coin for friendship... suffer me a song! Poor little birds sing in the garden like naked dancers pulling thoughts together around the small treacherous pole called survival Fake eyelashes fake blonde fake tan fake voices all sound dear to the American dreamer Flowers open here & there unfriendly Goodbye dear we bid farewell in twilight and that's how we survive ---LTG 2004