I am having a reading of A Good Smoke, once more, in New York for producers, etc. on Thursday.
An actor in the cast sent me an email telling me my play reminded him of the following poem.
I was flattered.
I am very glad that my play, after much noodling, still reminds someone of poetry.
I do like this poem.
POEM ENDING WITH A LINE
Snow coming in parallel to the street,
a cab spinning its tires (a rising whine
like a domestic argument, and then
the words get said that never get forgot),
slush and backed-up runoff waters at each
corner, clogged buses smelling of wet wool . . .
The acrid anger of the homeless swells
like wet rice. This slop is where I live, bitch,
a sogged panhandler shrieks to whom it may
concern. None who can hear him stall or turn,
there's someone's misery in all we earn.
But like a burr in a dog's coat his rage
has borrowed legs. We bring it home. It lives
like kin among the angers of the house,
and has the same sad zinc taste in the mouth:
And I have told you this to make you grieve.
– WILLIAM MATTHEWS