Canít go anywhere with this back

Iím all alone at home with Jack

Kerouac listening to him read

and giggle and move

to the music - with a slight

accent, something skewed

in his rhythmic voice.

- and Iím thinking of Allen and all

the poems he wrote to Jack and how

wide he grew

with trying to give to him.

And how much Allen is missing

from Jackís vision.