He might have written poems like these:

On Being Asked by Our Receptionist if I Liked the Flowers

"What flowers?" I said. "These flowers," she said,

Gesturing leftward with her head,

And there it was: a vase of flowers

That hadn't graced that fort of hers

The day before. Did I say a vase?

All of an urn is what it was:

Capacious home to a bursting sun

Of thirty lilies if to one.

A splendor I'd have seen for sure--

If less employed in seeing her.

My Own Traces

Dish sinked, food stowed--

So maybe I should hit the road.

A yank at the cord of what

I'd call the kitchen light if this

Nook were more of an excuse

For calling it that.

Whereupon the making for

The freedom of the front door--

In the course of which is when

The awful certainty of my

Never sealing up the rye

Bread steals in.

Nothing but to turn around,

Back-track to where I find

Myself re-entering

The province of the kitchenette,

Only to confront the sight

Of the light-cord aswing.

Not the first case of my

Own traces taking me

Completely by surprise.

Moving me to mutter "So

I do exist"--much as though

I'd had it otherwise.

On the Avenue

From the history of 5th (a little

South of 42nd). They

Hadn't taken the grandstand

Down from some Day the day

Before. What was funny was

The extent to which the thing was still

Occupied--as though its mere

Presence made it capable

Of peopling itself. There

Were as many as fifty or so of us

At any rate, all taking

In the scene, such as

It was: not yesterday's

Respectable parade; just

The usual unruly one.

A good fifty or so, most

Of whom presumably had paused,

In the course of a busy afternoon,

To clamber up and settle down

And wave it all serenely on.

I liked that. Liked how,

Given a nice place to sit,

A body of souls was sitting there,

Whatever obligations not

Withstanding. Not that I had

A lot to do, but it looked as though

Enough of the others probably did:

Suits and white shirts and so

Forth. And yet what they

Amounted to was nothing less

Than a village of the idle in

A city of the sedulous.

Sure, it shook my view a bit

When half the villagers or more

Went storming down as one upon

The pulling up of an M-4

Bus. But there was the other half.

The half that happened to survive.

The half that lasted all the way

To the pulling up of an M-5.

from Matter, by Dan Brown