Death of an Unknown Poet

Yesterday Guillermo died.
Dawn came to an abandoned bed:
Guillermo, poet of prostitutes,
final poem in his hand.

How else could he repay
charity received in the brothel?
House of whores,
free meals and bed
shared, oh yes,
with a menstruating woman resting.

Outcaste
yet compassionate
whorehouse.
In exchange, his poetry.

Guillermo, forever unpublished
except in some lady's arms
who was anything but a lady.
His only audience, harlots
who happily heard
the poems he wrote
sad
at the horrid shame of his poverty,
a genius
only honoured by whores.

[back to poems]