The head chef
who last week told me he knew where to
get anything
now leers at me and
talks in brief
code.
he gets off
angrily
drinks his free beer down quick
and leaves,
letting his long hair follow him
last weekend he hauled me down
into his basement room and showed
me picture’s of his traveling
and his poetry
both were unimpressively
hidden in his
8x8
room
without windows
his bed looked comfy though,
expensive
like the coke he was
no longer going to sell me
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
each time an adventure pops us you're there lucky when you're a poet who lives on the edge with a smile on his face fine poem