The Boy With The Boombox Poem by R.Benjamin Abate

He's tall
White
Blue-eyed
Walkin down
The street
With a boombox
In his hands
Bumpin
Coltrane
'A few of my
Favorite things'
Wearing
A suit
Like usual
The ladies
Stop to look
He turns
& Smiles
Their way
Waves
& They call
Like construction
Workers
He doesn't
Work
Just paints
In his room
Makes enough
Money to
Afford
A little bit
Of food
& A sack
Of weed
But he doesn't
Need anyone
& He knows it
Goes home alone
& Reads
Ginsberg, Bukowski
& Burroughs
These are his
Heroes
His Gods
He knows he's
Painting against
The odds
But he doesn't
Care
He just lives
His life
He knows
What will be
Will be
& Nothing is
Ever as good
Or as bad as
It seems