SHIRLEY

There's this woman,
Shirley, at work
who puts down
one of those toilet seat covers
on her stained aqua clothed swivel chair
before she sits her ancient ass
on there and calls for donations
for the Democrats
to God knows where
on the evening shift.
Shirley has straw for hair,
windshield wipers for eyelashes,
and a mouth that has said her share of prayers
for a few lifetimes.
And she's polite,
both on the phone
and before she leaves.
Shirley always asks
if the person has a moment
to talk
or to live,
and is thoughtful enough
to remove the toilet seat cover
when she's about to go home
for the evening.
What she does,
and with whom she does it,
after she leaves
is anybody's
guess.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND, MAN

I shouldn't have to be doing
this shit,
I was famous, man,
I was happening, I was smoking,
I wrote, man, compared to Kerouac,
published, sang my song
to pretty coeds,
I did shit, I fucked a million women,
man, drove fast cars, spent money
like nobody's business,
shot junk, poured booze
over the fires, palled around
with movie stars, famous poets,
musicians, models, bankers & brokers
of power & peasants & jail birds & Jews
& jealous husbands & prima donnas & politicians
& stray cats & mistresses & madams & wanna be
killers & cops & trauma surgeons.
This, this, this, this, is so
not me, so not what my hand
calls for would be a joke if
it was a joke but it's no joke,
it's a yoke, a weighty stifling soul murdering
conceit around an aging diamond.

Aw, fuckit,
lemme make
the next
call.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015