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 4:

One man walked into the empty back room
Sat down at north
He lost all five children in the fire that
Claimed his wife
Nothing left but time, four chairs, and a
Whole lotta life

One man strode into the one-man room
Sat down at east
His wife left him for the news anchor –
His best friend in school
No friends left, no dime, four chairs, and a
Whole lotta fools

One man limped into the two-man game
Sat down at south
Crippled legs, pride, smile in the horse race that
Maimed his life
Never considered time, four chairs, and a game
As a wife

One man sat down by the three-man chat
Sat down at west
Sat down his hat, his celibacy leaving him nothing that
Lifted his chest
Nothing left but time, four chairs, and a
Whole lotta rest

One man stood over the other four
Waiting for query
Listed to every word, every fear, every journey that
Weighed down the best
Everything lifted in time, four chairs, and a
Whole lotta mess