and if he wasn't terrified
he was quite young to be
cursed with Parkinson's
To his credit though
he'd found a way to
make his pants seem dry
There was a little binder
in his soft little hands
and as he introduced
his first piece
I immediately felt bad for him
He read the words
that held no heart
in a voice like a shy child
trying to ask his teacher
to excuse him to the nurse's office
so he could go change his pants
His piece was all pissed pants,
pretensions, and platitudes
When he finally finished
sympathetic applause came
and he left the stage
feigning modesty
in his deluded triumph
As he went over to the bar
and ordered something wet
like the lying pants that still
appeared to be dry on him
I kept noticing his hands
They were soft, clean,
and there was no trace
of any life having ever
gotten under his fingernails
They had no scars to show
where life had burrowed
under his skin
And no black bruises or bulges
where life had beaten its way
into his bones
He was a poet alright-
soft, sad, sensitive,
pretentious, predictable, and pathetic
And every time I write anything at all
I don't worry about what comes out
as long as I don't end up like him
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