The poet...
pantless he was
as he flew his kite
Dirty
He had not bathed
Thursday... it was Friday
Ham he ate
But the pig was not
dead... And it was cold
outside, and he had no pants
Cold
He could find no refuge
from the woodpeckers
he wore no pants
and was cold
His smile was... fulgent
for he was happy
As a small child
flies
a kite... so did he
that Friday...
But pantless he was
Still, he was
the poet.