brian is fifty-three
frames houses for a living
tells very bad jokes
i won't bore you with.
generally he's a good guy
we shoot shit
over the fence.
far as he knew
i watched a-lot of tv
(i don't own one)
and drank rum like a billy goat.
but i slipped up last saturday
(ego and rum on an empty stomach)
told him i write poetry (nobody
except my wife knows that)
yesterday he calls me to the fence
says he googled my name
how he thought poetry
was for fags and pot smokers
but i was drawing a bead
on the
hell of this thing.

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