Count No Count

He was no one

but himself, a man

with airs, never

worked a day


unless you called

writing work.

Someone said he’d

flown a biplane


during the war,

drifted down

to New Orleans

where everyone


was lazy.  Afternoons,

he walked proudly

to town, bought                                                      



pipe tobacco,

a jar of moonshine

from the still

behind the store.


Nobody believed it

when he got published,

was famous even


in New York.

And when he died,

his old house

was turned into a museum!


They found words

and more words

Miller William Miller is the author of five collections of poetry, twelves books for children and a mystery novel. He lives and writes in the French Quarter of New Orleans.