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On the Fire-Escape with Kerouac's Ghost

by F. David Horn

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Gonna git me a box of wine.
Drink it down,
Drown my think,
Lay my crown's machine to sleep,
Let it hammer in the mournin'.

For this is as young as I'll ever be.
And the women down the street,

My eyes follow, whispering;

"Merci" and "mon petit,"

To stalking'd legs and

Tiny feet.

As they

clamor towards
The terminal
Terminally out of reach.
Jack's ghost breathes my sigh
and leaps down the
wrought
iron
ladder
And joins the "dames"
For another drink.

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