The Moon Is Void Of Course

I can’t write because the paper’s too small.
I can’t write because the paper’s too white.
I can’t write because I’m too white.
I can’t write because I’m depressed.
I can’t write I’m not depressed.
I can’t write because my coffee’s too cold
and my watch doesn’t work and my plants
need to be watered
(I made that up - I don’t have any plants).
I can’t write because I have nothing to say.
I can’t write because I might say something
I don’t want to hear.
I can’t write because Bill Clinton is president
and I’m not.
I can’t write because I moved
from Denver to San Francisco
then left San Francisco to live in New York.
I can’t write because I live in New York.
I can’t write because the moon is void,
of course.

SHOESHINE MAN RETIRED

Every day he stands in front of the Jax Laundry,
clutching a cup of something hot and dark
or clear and forgetful in his hand.
Stones move more.
He wears a down-green coat that’s reversible
and less than new,
the other side off-white as his hair.
His beaten leather satchel is anchored close by,
a monument to stability, a refuge in the concrete.
Inside there’s Kleenex,
crumpled paper bags from Smiler’s Deli,
half-a-buttered roll, a polka dot umbrella,
sometimes Thunderbird, sometimes a nameless gin.
If you took a picture of his face from day-to-day
the only thing to change
would be the angle of the sun.
They were taking pictures of him yesterday;
a camera crew with lights and flash
doled him out a brand new twenty.
This regal man, totem to long-suffering,
standing for the time
when he will
shine
again.