Back to Issue 5

Comes a Push-cart Down a Ghazal That's Way Too Long by Bob Boston

There are way too many people writing poetry,
and not nearly enough people reading it. It seems

to me poets write for the publication credit. They
collect them like rare stamps. Each of them, I

guess, aims to be the next Charles Bukowski,
or the next Langston Hughes, or the next Mary Jo

Bang ... or, the next - Lynn Lyfshin. They all want
to be nominated, it seems, for that damn Push-Cart.

I already have one of those. It's the metal basket
I wheel down the avenue with my bottles in. I write

my poems on discarded newspapers. On yesterday's
papers, I write my own news today. I steal pens from

the staff members at the shelter I live at when they're not
looking. During the day, when I'm not at the shelter,

or meeting with the doctor, I'm at the library. You see,
the nice woman who works there, in her spare time,

sends poems of mine out to editors and such on the
library computer. I've never used   ... one of those either.

I drop by the library once a day to see what's doing.
Once I leave there, me and my cart sometimes make

our way to the city green where I sit on a park bench -
befriending   the pigeons and squirrels.   I've had a lot

of poems published here and there, but I have never
won a Push-Cart. I'm not even sure what a Push-Cart

for poems is. Is it anything like mine? Why wouldn't
they just give us poets what we need more of?   Some

paper? A few pens? Envelopes? Stamps?!   Instead,
they aim to give us, cart. I have to remind myself for the

blessings I have. I have the nice lady in the library who
believes in my odes, I get all the entertainment and

friendship I need from the pigeons and squirrels. And
believe it or not, the amount of people who bring their

bottles back to the grocery store, is just about the
same as the amount of people in the world ... who actually

read poetry. A Push-Cart.   The wheels on mine work
just fine. However, I don't have Life Insurance. If the

Push-Cart is indeed - an actual cart, depending on what
it's made of, it might just make one hell ... of a fine box.

Bio: Bob Boston is a poet residing on the East Coast. He has been writing for several years. Bob has recently had poetry accepted for publication by The Verse Marauder and morsel(s). Bob has his Ph.D, but he feels no need to wave it around like a trophy. Mr. Boston believes the best poetry comes from within the soul. He feels language merely helps the words come more concisely. There are thousands of bad poets out there - with a Ph.D. Without soul, compassion, and "a natural spring of creativity within," having the degree is like waving around an attractive sword - and no war to fight.