A Poem From Master Li-Fi of Bensonhurst

The stage is empty
The microphone's shut.
All the lights are off.
The power's been cut.

The doors have been locked.
The curtains have been closed.
And the Hobo on the couch
continues to doze.

He sleeps until he sees
the bright morning light
and wonders what the hell
happened last night.

Did he get to do a reading?
Are his poems all the rage?
Or did he just make a giant
ass of himself on stage?

So many things to ponder.
So little time to think
when all the Hobo really wants
is another stiff drink.

So he pulls himself from the sofa
and brushes off the lice.
Then he shuffles to the bar
and pours a Jack with ice.