On Envy
I know a man who is upright,
Virtuous, totally without fault.
Ah, I see he is wounded---
Let me get some salt.

Reading Writer's Market
I think often of Emily Dickinson
Saying to herself with a sigh
As she made a fair copy of a poem,
"Another no journal will buy."

On the Only Certain
Veritas that is in Vino
I drink through all the night
Cheap red Gallo wine,
And think how it sharpens
My conversational wit,

Yet the knowledge that I take
From all my drinking is
How runny tomorrow
Will be the shit I shit.