I thumb through those lit mags,
and sometimes there are pictures, he’s most often
photographed with other old Beats, those kittens
still hanging together, wondering where the good times
went, looking sad and confused as the young girls jump
into bed with a new generation; the
old Beats look fat, haggard and angry like ancient
prostitutes still flashing their faded garter belts;
they pose for the camera like
long-retired door-to-door salesman
photographed together at some ill-advised
reunion.
(из стихотворения "THE POET")