«he was another» by John Yamrus

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crazy4yarn2

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he was another

bonehead
who thought that
once his book was out

the world
was gonna come
banging on his door,

wanting
to hear him
read his poems

and
tell them
his theories on life,
love, sadness, goodness

and
why his poems
were the only ones
in the world worth reading.

it didn’t happen.

there
was a paragraph
in the local newspaper

and that was it.

he did a
book signing
at an art gallery
and no one showed
except the owner and his wife,

his niece
and a couple of kids
who walked in to get out of the rain.

the kids
smelled like wet dogs
and laughed at the paintings

and left.

there
was a table
in the back, with
a tray of cookies that
not even the kids would eat…

a bottle of
wine and a bowl
of ice that was starting to melt.

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