There are many many people
who do not feel as if they have to
write poetry. They are not moved
by the smell of black coffee and
cigarettes in the afternoon sun. When I pass them
I can tell that 5 angry men with
machine guns do not have them
pressed up against a wall demanding
they dream. They do not feel the unrequited
desire to run their calloused hands
along city pavement and smear the
black smudge on the cups
and plates of their solitude.
But they are the lucky ones I suppose.
They may not be invited by the muses
to the party,
but they sure as hell
can never be kicked out of the bed
once its finally over
and the city has
buttoned up its jacket.