The Poet

What kind of poet
sits in a bar, wrestling with words
that just won’t  come.
and when they do
they refuse to fall in a pleasing order
they buzz around his head like a hive

What kind of poet
can’t write
because he’s worried
about his day job.
his position
the drinks in front of him
and the dollars in his pocket.
the brain can’t write the great works
when it’s doing math
with this round
on Monday
you don’t eat Friday
then Thursday.
some say a true author needs to suffer
but even a weed
needs a break in the weather
to grow.
How can a man write
sitting next to a woman
at 7
who’s been drinking
since 1

Who can create
while she fidgets
on her stool
hiking her skirt
high past her knee
giving just a glimpse
into the future.
Nothing is done
next to boys drinking beer
two kinds of whiskey
and one kind of scotch.
What kind of poet
can sandwich in between
go unnoticed
Ill received
and still hope

Who can create
with  horrors
and all this stupidity abound.

And as I finish pissing
I wash my hands
zip up
splash cool water on my face
stop the spinning
stare into the mirror
and say

I can
I can
I will


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