He Must Be a Good Poet

He must be a good poet,
He seems sad all the time,
As wasted as a weekday,
Even his curses rhyme.

He must be a good poet,
Seems holier than thou,
Always ruminating memories,
Dreaming down the now.

He must be a good poet,
He never has any money,
But all the women love him,
His tongue of gathered honey.

He must be a good poet,
He seems to savor his empty pain,
Lives in the lap of a tempest,
Where he can out-weather the rain.

He must be a good poet,
He never talks; just that feeding stare,
The world could slip to oblivion,
He’d ride the wake with not a care.

He must be a good poet,
Something in his eyes tell of light,
Shipwrecks and sadly spent angels,
Tuned dreamers of ever aching night.

He must be a good poet,
Beauty seems to swim his soul,
Weeping of one splintered loin’s paw,
Though his own life be a hole.

And all the jilted miracles of moment,
Find him scripted and wise,
He must be a great poet,
He won a five thousand dollar prize.