THE WORDS WON’T WRITE THEMSELVES
He called me up on the phone.
I don’t know why I answered.
“come on down to the decks,”
He said to me, voices in the background.
“come down and have a drink!”
I gave the idea some thought.
I never minded a drink or two,
Out there on those sunny decks,
The boats sailing by on the bay.
“no, I’m drinkin’!”
The problem with my friend T.
was that a drink or two turned into
a day or two on the whiskey train,
and I knew if I went down there
I’d never make it back to the keys.
“nah. I only like to come down
When you’re working,
so that I can pay less for drinks and hassle you.”
“come on, it’s a beautiful day out.”
“listen, kid. I’m in here at the keys,
Trying to make something of my life.”
“make something of your life out here,
That’s what I’m doing!”
I chuckled into the phone.
“And that’s why I’ll get published
And become one of the greatest of all time.
People will drink and cry and toss flowers on my tomb,
While you’ll just drink yourself to death,
never having been published.
And dogs will piss on your grave.”
There was silence for a moment,
Then he said thoughtfully, “that’s really mean.”
“Ho ho ho,” I laughed,
“but it might also be true. Now listen,”
I said, sipping at the beer in front of me.
“I’ve gotta go. These words won’t write themselves.”