I call myself a poet
but not today.
Today I blow smoke
into March winds
and powder the sky
with exhale.
Chaos my muse
has gone away,
she’s left me here
with deck chairs
and wind chimes,
cigarettes and ash,
the epic poem
I planned to write
will have to wait.
Wait for the wave
of self-loathing
and remorse
to come along
as inspiration,
it always comes,
its just
a matter of time,
but not today.
Today i sit.
Today I smoke.

Today I exhale
what tomorrow
I breathe.