Charles Lyons

I really like the work of E.A. Robinson, who is most famous for his poems "Miniver Cheevy" and 'Richard Corey." So, I wrote a poem of my own about a miserly figure.

Charles Lyons, king of forty feet square,

watches the world walk by his garret,

dropping ashes and muttered phrases

on the heads of those fools who know

nothing of sacrifice, art, and everything

of comfort and wealth; cursing the system

that makes no concession for dreams and vision.

Each morning he paints an abstract,

Blood and mucous on white hanky no. 17,

stirs the ashtray’s pallet, seeing the clouds

reflected there, and draws

the shades against the sun

before sitting to compose long letters

full of withering phrases

he would be sure to write

had he the money for the stamps,

denouncing his parents in no uncertain terms

for their lack of support and love,

their thickheaded refusal to understand

his heroic sacrifice for art, which the world

could neither know nor support.

Charles Lyons, king of unpaid bills

and withering glances no one sees,

wraps himself in his mother’s quilt,

coughs, and drinks his next step

on the martyr’s path, a dusty way

across a barren land devoid of feature.