My best work came from nights of cigarettes and wine,
And all my words flowed like a single rolling dime,
Round and round till it would stop and fall flat,
And I would pick it up again and spin it on the mat.
Again it would spin, and ideas would stream in,
Not a single piece of paper would meet the rubbish bin.
Every single poem would jive with rhythm and rhyme,
Just like the spin of a single rolling dime.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem