He lived with his mother till he was forty-five
and no one was allowed to touch his head.
He worked on a novel for twenty years
without writing a word. He didn’t like people
who wrote novels. He often drank. One glass of beer
was too many, two glasses weren’t enough.
Travel brochures were as far as he went.
A football match, one time. He often said
Why would anyone want to think about a potato?
He painted his door with nobody’s help.
From Back of Beyond: New and Selected Poems (Smith/Doorstop Books, 2006)