Jack Kerouac wrote somewhere
America is a lonely crocashit.
I scribbled it down
And my ex-wife placed it
In Pablo Neruda’s book
Twenty Love Poems And A Song Of Despair.
I found it years after she was gone
And it made everything
Seem logical and reasonable.
But it is not just America:
Every place is afflicted
With terrible stinging tears
And loveless lives
And unfulfilled longing.
Like Kerouac, most poets
Are sad alcoholics;
Maybe everyone in the world
Is a lost poet.