Joe The Poet Poem by The Poet SPIEL

joe the poet


joe's left hand fully wrapped in a brown bag
stuffed in his filthy wool coat pocket
he waits patiently in line
like all the others

but aiming to exchange his pain
with desperate thoughts of a new poem
even more seering than his last
about all those dead meat joes of war

and hunkering behind him joe the indian
inhales his tribal blend of tobacco
to spread his lungs so he can face
the grim reality of

his three frail babies' mothers
whose milk has failed to flow
while joe the farmer gasps
for one more breath of

this flu-contaminated air where
all these joes are just joes including joe
the nurse who assigns them by measure
of perceived urgency

with joe the poet wondering:
will the sever points
of his writing hand be completely dead
before his turn for an assist to stitch it up
while the fire is panging his left arm