Portland
City of Roses
of blooming poets.
Myself an old man
I stumble into the 60s and 70s
{the Hilton the tallest building in town)
looking for faces of those mostly gone.
Walt Curtis
Whitmanesque
on a tall stool turns
teetering on his toes
The blooming poets of Portland
groupies in their workshops
without passion, always the concrete.
Bridges span the still filthy Willamette.
Walt’s passion as he turns!
as his hands beat out words
his audience in the dozens
laughing sighing yelling
“Give it to ’em Walt!”
His circle complete
he turns to talk.
“It’s the 4th of July, my birthday!”
our bombs bursting in air
all over the world.
Ensconced in his chair by the President
Kissinger presents his Grand Plan.
The poets do not respond to countless wars
fail to celebrate
boys swimming at Mollala Falls.