for Theodore Roethke*

It is dipsetic work,
a gasping kind
of mental sweating,
that takes its toll,
requires forgetting;
the work of words
will drain you dry,
leave you thirsty,
make you cry;
that withered husk,
the writer's soul,
requires fluids
to make it whole;
the desiccated,
wilted heart
craves a drink
to mend its art;
and this is why,
I've come to think,
in vats of whiskey
poets sink.
  - mce