This is a real bad city
full of crazies
and between the drugs and the booze and the sex
thereís nothing to e-mail home about.
Mother turned 49 this year
and Iím living away from home
with a real job, this time.
And thereís a real bad place in this city
that I havenít managed to find;
itíll be out there somewhere,
like we all are.
I cut my hair short for the summer,
looked presentable at weddings,
prepared for a first and perfect pitch.
I sang songs along the motorway.
But itís a real bad city
for my real bad posture,
slouching in the sunshine smoking cigarettes
Ďtil someone send me home.
I read the one true poet
and make a start on the Stella.