Patti Smith Does The Hamptons Poem by Daniel Thomas Moran

Patti Smith, you
are not looking good.
You must know that.
The years have
weathered you like
a Cape Cod shingle.

I suppose you
are as angry at this life
as you ever were, back
when you crawled in
from The Jersey Suburbs
to hang in The Bunker
with Burroughs
and Ginsberg,
and Mapplethorpe.

The Original
Bowery Fag-Hag.

I can only imagine
the suffering endured,
dragging a brush
through that hair.
But you stayed on
your feet last night,
despite the teetering,
sustaining yourself
with a bottle of
Poland Spring.

If I had had
the chance to
actually speak to you,
I would have told you
that I am a poet too.


And if there was
any hope of a reply,
I might have asked
you why you
spit on my new shoe.