-the published poet, the unpublished poet, and the kid next door-

I’ll read some George Bilgere poems during the early

evening slow-down, the first stroke of darkness when

interior table lamps are reconsidered.
out there, beyond the South Swansea wilderness, the route 6 traffic

is culled by time as workday tensions exhale from their necessities.

tonight seems right for Bilgere. he knows how to stick an ending.

(earlier, I witnessed the kid next door strapped-in with muscular dystrophy

struggling to make it up the ramp to his house, the agonized machinery whining
for the want of its battery's charge, his broken torso slumped head-first,

low and pleading as if confronting a dense atmosphere.)

I left him to his own devices.

I'll start with Bilgere's volume, "The White Museum" and the poem titled: "Trash".

It opens with a quote from Pablo Neruda:

"Each morning I place on my writing table

        a carnation and a hammer".

imagine writing such an introduction to the day ahead.

as for me, there are times when I'll question the work in progress,
"sounds like somebody else" but I'll pass through a measure of time

and exploration before entering the crowded platform with reasonable assurance.

as for this entry, the lines in parenthesis beginning with: “earlier, I witnessed.."

ending with:  “as if confronting a dense atmosphere"— well,

I've assured myself at least for the time being that for the most part, are mine.