Lazy Bums

Today I visited with Robert Frost,

But not the Robert Frost of Kennedy’s

Inaugural, and not the piss and fire

Poet who worried, when he heard that Carl

Sandburg had died, if he was number one

At last. The Bob I met with still was young

And only known in Derry. He’s the one

The neighbors knew as lazy—sitting on

His porch when there was hay to cut and bale;

A lazy bum who’d rather sit and dream

And waste his time with words than get to work.

I listened to the wind and whippoorwills.

He hadn’t anything to say to me,

So just like him I sat, a lazy bum

Enjoying doing nothing in the sun.

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