I didn’t know it at the time,
but my misspent youth was planned
The training ground for what I’d write,
then hard to understand
The many schools, the teachers chides,
expulsions my reward
Postgraduate work for future truth,
all voices untoward
The risks were high, survival mined,
Shangi-La, a vagrant’s room
My pen disclaimed, all actions shamed,
flat broke one afternoon
From the diner’s window I heard...
Continue reading...