A Poem
By Dan Provost
I feel kinship with
the gifted outcast…
Approach their suspicious
demeanor as I see them on
the street corner…
Young Samson tells me
he still works at the garage.
Delilah, weather beaten, still
owns the prostitute life…
Hiding her Masters’ Degree
between her breast.
They talk of nothing and
everything, limited to
discussions about Erasmus and
the Pope.
Sun now setting, conquest
of sparkplugs and blowjobs on
the horizon…
We all leave, untitled and
unadorned…
The slit of the city, never unified…
Never cured…
Just partial tales about
the convictions of life…
And the beautiful slivers
that pierce the skin to
remind us
of the certainties of death.
