Everything turns into writing I get it
six feet better than five Is poetry
a pain killer? Is art? I feel my lower back
has gone : it must be the heavy load I carry
doc will write me a prescription make it better
Grace to be pain-free
in this vale of tears, Patsy
says and she smiles into her plate of sunny side
eggs : hard to tell if she’s being serious or
not sometimes
Billy the Kid and Jesse James flash
before my eyes along with Liberty Valance
Strange animal this fevered imagination
of mine Had he lived Frank O’ would be ninety-six
now Sad water under the Mirabeau Bridge, she
says as a beautiful tear
blossoms in her eye.
John Lyons