by Matt Morris
Indiscreet Charade
an unseen wren by
my window warbles
an amateurish
impersonation
of cary grant worse
than open mic night
at flappers hey I’d
hide up a tree too
if I couldn’t do
any better than
that I don’t mean to
crow but as a self-
styled mimic myself
my cary grant is
on a whole other
level of sophis-
try & -tication
no judy judy
judy crap but dressed
in my best flannel
suit I climb onto
the steep gabled roof
of my canary
yellow cottage tip-
toeing up & down
my pantomimed tight-
rope of a crest
like the acrobat
he was in his youth
from time to time I
teeter for comedic
effect wearing horn-
rimmed specs I point till
everybody can
see the wren high
in the pine branches
do its cheap shtick then
just like that fly off
when the acid kicks in
Ode to Bukowski
you never know when you plop
your ass on the seat
just what’s inside you that needs
to come out following night
upon night of bean
dinners washed down with cheap beer
cheaper whores you sit
naked hungover alone
inside your head gettting done
what has to be done
you leave your mark on each sheet
in the belief you’re
the only one who gives a
good shit about poetry
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