A young man sits in a room too small,
Wearing shirts too tight and writing poems too weak,
The passage of time marked by the arrival of fire to yellow filters,
He writes because he believes in the vision of poets,
Those burning angels with arms outstretched,
And a young girl stooped at the knees,
Giving praise and *******
So she can pass
He looks out the window and recognizes
Indentured servants waiting to sail to the new world
Like him
He thinks about freedom and writes
And remembers that all the old ones
The ones who are free
Are dead
Graves marked with empty glass bottles
And he remembers the alchemy of words
That he knows is already wasted
Stillborn poetry
That he’ll pour on critics and admirers alike
Who will stand like gospel singers
Waiting to be washed under that waterfall
Of stagnant recycled waste
They pour on children and their parents from buckets
At theme parks
Already he mourns being talentless
Not being in a madhouse
In line for his lobotomy
Instead rocking with straight jacket arms
Through gauntlets of debt
Contemplating mazes
When he finally goes home he greets family
With empty pockets
But they praise him anyway
And he makes himself a madhouse
Which the gift of poetry itself
Visits on the weekends
Token gestures of acquaintance from long ago
And the young man spends his evenings
Watching distant lights
Blink on and off.