Although he can barely stand,
wobbling in dark work boots, eyes
whiskey hued, he’s a poetry man, this
friend of my brother.
Oblivious of a chuckling few,
he recites a poem that silences us,
bucks our eyes, perks our ears.
“Thank you, Eugene, for taking out the trash,”
my sister says later, when he returns, beaming.
Says, “I love a woman who can speak my name.”
“Well, what do some call you?” she asks. “Poet?”
“No. Call me Lou Gene, New Gene and Lil Gene.
For you, I’d write a poem for life, not just
(c) Claudia Moss 4/5/2015