Seated so low in your sportscar
You still look down on me in my
Torn and ***** workwear.

But know this: I stood on the floor of your
Basement garage, and saw only sky.
Your luxury apartment was air.

The rough concrete behind your walls
Were those of my workplace. I know
Things about your bedroom you never
Will.

I don't want your respect; I don't need it.
I helped deliver your million dollar baby.
I have seen your home
Naked.

Outside my window I count
Three shadows.
Twelve legs.
Grazing.

Up here we call the elk
The King of the Woods.
[Antlers the width of your widescreen;
As convincing a crown as any].

When they run past the house
The crystal shakes in
The cupboard.
The cat breaks records up trees.

I am a man.
I am merely a man.
I will never own the night.

It is a declaration of cowardice.
I put my pen down and
Step away slowly
[Defusing the letter bomb].
They don't always turn the
Other sheet, you know.

Sometimes the poem
Writes back.

On my every birthday
I give my mother
Flowers.

Poet, be not afraid.
There are far worse things than
Bad poetry.

Keep writing; like a child keeps
Drawing with the purest of
Disregards to likeness.

The more stones you turn, the more
Gems you produce.

The more ink you rain,
The more gracious your written
Children grow.

All flexing builds muscle.

Rough bricks form castles.

Even Dalì carved canvases to shreds
And started anew
Not caring too much.
Not caring

Too much
To keep painting.