There are many many people who do not feel as if they have to write poetry. They are not moved by the smell of black coffee and cigarettes in the afternoon sun. When I pass them I can tell that 5 angry men with machine guns do not have them pressed up against a wall demanding they dream. They do not feel the unrequited desire to run their calloused hands along city pavement and smear the black smudge on the cups and plates of their solitude. But they are the lucky ones I suppose. They may not be invited by the muses to the party, but they sure as hell can never be kicked out of the bed once its finally over and the city has buttoned up its jacket.