When I am by myself,
Perhaps after a glass of embarrassingly inexpensive wine,
I pick up a volume of verse by a handsome young British man.
My fingers glide over his long breathtaking lines.
His allusions arouse so many ideas in my body until
I feel the need to satisfy my own poetic passion.
I have to get the writing out of me urgently and alone.
I relax as I start to touch my thoughts to paper in rhythm.
Clenching my pen and smacking words together harder and
Faster with my face all contorted,
Culminating in the sublime moment
Where my words and I become one.
Then, afterward, looking upon the inky mess I’ve made,
I feel utterly exhausted and I never want to see the thing again.