Prowling the streets and lanes
Of Amsterdam I used to cruise the bookstores
With a fresh-faced comrade
Searching for one more
Masterpiece of yours for me to greedily
Consume on early Saturday mornings,
Cold Heineken in hand.
By number three
I would feel your groove, the pages
Flying by devouring
Lines from Factotum, Post Office, Women
Or Ham on Rye —
It didn’t really matter much which one,
Just to hear your voice like
John the Baptist howling out as only a madman
In the desert could, warning
The meek or naïve to cash it in
Before getting dealt
Another crooked hand.
By the box-load I dragged
The weight of your words back home
Only later coming round to
Your other tomes, found in all places
On a college reading list and wondering
Aloud about who’d have the balls
To share your naked truth
With the uninitiated.
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