On the lower east side
Of
I would sit there
When I was about
Twenty years old,
And in the evening,
When the moon was
Bright, I would
Write poetry, on
A yellow pad,
I was living alone,
Trying to make it
In
And so far I got turned
Down by all the big magazines
In
Living in this cheap tenement, almost
Starving, but here in this little metal
Cage, was just enough
Room to write poetry,
Figuring the moon and stars
Would help me along,
And in case of fire,
All I had to do was run down
The staircase, till I got to the
Ground and I wrote with a pen
And a flashlight, my fingers numb
From early frost, and after
A while nothing happened
I got a damn sick of
The whole damn thing,
I climbed back through
The window, and went to sleep
In my iron cot
Copyright © 2008 by Ed Galing
Ed is ninety-two years young. He is widely published online and in various anthologies
Worldwide. Ed is a breath of fresh air to Fresh! Literary Magazine