by Alan Britt
a unique genre,
Almost like Whitman lounging,
today, in Central Park.
Or Emily Dickinson
juggling metaphors like torches
on the Tonight Show.
The greatest balladeer of his generation
sent Joey: It always seemed
he got caught between the mob and the man in blue,
into the streets of Little Italy.
Weaving the lives of Hurricane Carter and Hattie Carroll
into a tapestry of impossible retreat.
Giving us hope and leopard-skin pillbox hats
just when we needed them the most.
So, how about this balladeer of ours,
stumbling past a cracked saffron mirror,
through squeaky saloon doors,
fashionably late for his showdown with God?