Once upon a time, I read that the perfect age for writing quality poetry is twenty-three. Apparently most of T.S. Elliot’s stuff came out then, the rest having to do with prose. I realized January 19ththat I will turn twenty-four in three months, and since I started writing some poems before it’s too late: forty-six poems at twenty-three. I’ll post each Friday until the last week of March, then I’ll post one a day until my birthday on April 30th. Here’s number 9:

Nine crimes, he whined
Nine crimes.

I can’t think of three. I know one I
repeat. One attached to my heartbeat
One liar
One thief

But nine?
Nine shades of a crime, sure.
Nine fights
Nine lives
Nine lights shining in a rearview mirror
Cherries, blueberries for three crimes,
But nine?

Men come by virtue and vice
Women by wickeness and niceties
Pope told called vice “a monster of mien,
As to be hated, need but to be seen,
Yet seen to oft, familiar with her face
First we pity, then endure, then we embrace.”

But virtue’s an impulse of seraphic air
Yet to be learned, not snubbed in despair
When seen to oft, we forget awkward plights
First posit, adopt, promote hate of fights

Three crimes, for me
Three contrasting ethics
But nine crimes show a man
bored
ignored
decrepit and addled.