The more I drink
the higher the cigarette butts pile up in the ashtray
the more I think . . .
That familiar voice inside my head
my most trusted advisor
agrees it was a grand idea I should give in to this passion
devote all my energy to this lust for words . . .
Or maybe tonight it should be
to my lust for romance
he now questions
let’s call it romance
a so much more
romantic term . . .
do I stick with that lust for words
it’s not too late yet . . .
So I hold out my hands
palms up to see
I mean romance here
feel the heft
weigh those two worthies in the balance
the future of each hanging in the finely tuned scale
and well see
how the mass falls heavily on the versifying side . . .
the hours come
but still the words won’t
no matter how hard I push
I wilt with sunrise
wish I’d traveled the other road
and awakened somewhat satisfied . . .
it was a rough one . . .
You know some nights you should live the porter’s life,
last night feels like your job was to protect the king.