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Cur
North Beach (Fall '75)
Who is that
Young idiopt, not
Aware of his
Hunger only his
Thirst, standing reading
In a thin
Book burning his
Eyes, he hopes,
Standing without money
In City Lights,
Nobody bothers him,
He reads till
Closing at midnight,
Then walks past
The strip joints'
Barkers, black curtains,
And purple bulbs
To the cold
Six-pack he
Stashed on the
Windowsill, the Camels
He bought instead
Of tomorrow's breakfast,
To his desk
Made from two
Dresser drawers and
The closet shelf
In the quaint
Onion-scented hotel
On Broadway where
His notebook lives
In ecstasy with
His pen, ink,
And last two
Unsold hardcover books,
Stevens and Yeats?
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