Mom put "White Christmas" on
and we sat around the TV
while yelling and talking and not
really watching. We drank and I thought
of Hemingway and Bukowski, because they
drank and wrote a lot.
And I sat down to write,
without worrying about editing,
and I wrote this particular poem. 8 glasses of
cider later,
I sit in silence, listening for inspiration.
I don't think any is coming, but
often good times don't result in poetry.