remembering Billy Strayhorn
lots of poets think they're good;
lots of good ones doubt it
they regret and prize nothing
as the need to write
entertainers, smooth as grapes
urges like a date that rapes
talented crafters, hooking rugs
tortured prisoners tossing doves
the sky is blush
above our bards,
hued with nerve
they think and write
and the ground moves as i type,
thumped with running then the pause
as this or that one drops the yen
and the next one picks it up again
relaying images toward the line
building airy, entendred rhyme
this honors us, me and you,
but it's good to know who is who