No
No friends but pen and page
Hear your words of rage.
No wife but words and wit
Rhymed to tightly fit.
No mistress but tears
Treasured down dim years.
No gods but gods of song
Now, but not for long.
No enemy but Life
And its rust-dull knife.
1977
Striking Out
(for Charles Lewis) The color of lemonade washing the sky Popsicle memories revive Of baseball connecting with ash wood, hit high In an arcing, outfield drive. Are summers forever? Or only a day? Moth-eaten , major-league hat& December s the umpire, miscalling the play, And there s ice on my Louisville bat. 03-09-85
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