I used to be a poet,
and my professors told me
I “had it,” but I moved to new york
city and started waiting tables
and lacked the lightning manic
of ginsberg or carlos Williams.
so now I drink my lagers
and regret the missing pages
that would have filled my notebooks,
spiral rings all rusted. truth is, I
still have it, though sometimes I feel
I’ve lost it, but if I devour a volume
of sexton and brush up on my plath
I can sit for a minute or two,
the time it takes to draw a hot
bath, and tap out the lines on my MacBook.
what an orchestral chatter! so if no one
reads it, no matter. I know
I’m still a poet.
