Poetry by Dan Provost


Being Exact at Your Craft

Words?cut like a dagger through the skin, wrap around the sweat of your brow?
But you walk?
But you walk?

I talk in fragments?line up the shots along the dirty bar, and ramble about
morality in earshot of any one who wants to hear.

Jargon of the drunken poet?alone?welling of tears while remembering lost youth?
All is not well in the house of drooling mirth?

A sweet conversation with the neighborhood whore, another night of stagger into
the trash?writing down thoughts in incomprehensible scribble.

A peek at the moon, still there?
Falling into a dust of a bed, forgot to turn off the turntable?Quadrophenia
plays ?The Punk Meets the Godfather.?

Constantly trying to read and compose?Blowing off work, looking for words
The real words?
The right words?

Hoping it will all end, understanding it is just the beginning of the first day

Like the last day
and probably tomorrow.


©Dan Provost