of his dime store compass
in a worn hole of legal sized
drawing paper
sharpens his No.2 pencil
and draws the arc of an angle
in his 360 sketch of a movie set
he is going to build someday.
A derelict poet has washed up
in Dan’s house. Cassette tapes
in a worn red and white cardboard box
are on the top shelf in the spare bedroom
along with worn notebooks full of scribbles.
Over cold beer bought with moolah
from soon to run out unemployment
checks, our poet broods and flashes
back in no useful order.
Love painting the green cement porch
red. Paint brushes bleeding red
in empty trays of thinner.
Red faced baby squalling
at the Man in the Moon
shaking his tiny
clenched fists.