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



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.