At Barlow’s

for jeff taylor

i sit here thinking of you

while trying to white knuckle 

my way through a plate 

of scrambled eggs

that taste like burnt rubber

you said that you

had no money

but offered a couch

if i ever needed one

we barely got 

to know each other

but when we die

everyone on the internet

was our best friend

kevin laughs 

the way 

old white people 

tend to 

before 9 am

& i look out the window

at the morning traffic

that passes us by

these rivers are the tributaries 

of the dreams 

we drown in

but nobody 

tells us that.

On the Anniversary 

of the Death of Mike James

there is barely 

any snow 

on the ground

but it doesn’t matter anyway

when you aren’t there 

to shovel it

the way ezra pound 

shoveled shit

til a ripe old age.

John Dorsey is the former poet laureate of Belle, Missouri and the author of Pocatello Wildflower. He may be reached at archerevans@yahoo.com.