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Poem

To be a somebody 

When we were young, we lived a café life
and often spoke about writing a novel, but
mostly we endlessly spoke about other 
writers, those how were heavy drinkers
we tried to emulate.
Naturally, no one understood  our pain 
of being talented 
Alfred, my friend and fellow drinker, went
to Paris to write, he got the clap
came home and wore a French beret  and
A Raincoat got a poem published in the local
paper, forever referred to as a Frenchy 
His work, as an artist, was done, he rested 
on his laurel, got a job as a clerk at an agency
selling Mallorca holidays.
when we met up, it was not the same 
he was not as happy as he pretended to be
jumped out of a window from a second 
story house landed awkwardly, limped home
to his aging mother, his struggle was not art
but to come to terms with him being gay
I drew the curtain of the window of art 
When Alfred later committed  suicide with
a bathroom towel and a doorknob 
I sold my café, went to live in North Spain
married a local girl who had a flock of 
sheep and her own house and settled as 
a sheepherder.
she told people I was a famous writer to 
give herself air and graces, not that 
I minded no one around here read a book
except perhaps the bible

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