He was no one
but himself, a man
with airs, never
worked a day
unless you called
writing work.
Someone said he’d
flown a biplane
during the war,
drifted down
to New Orleans
where everyone
was lazy. Afternoons,
he walked proudly
to town, bought
newspapers,
pipe tobacco,
a jar of moonshine
from the still
behind the store.
Nobody believed it
when he got published,
was famous even
in New York.
And when he died,
his old house
was turned into a museum!
They found words
and more words
William Miller is the author of five collections of poetry, twelves books for children and a mystery novel. He lives and writes in the French Quarter of New Orleans.