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                                                      

newspapers,

 

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.