I'm too practical for poetry.
After all, I spend my 9 to 5
In practical pursuits.
I sit at my computer doing something or other,
Certainly not dreaming
Certainly not wandering off
Over acres of flowering thoughts
Frolicking through the meadows of my mind
Dancing in the swirling winds of imagination  
That coalesce into clouds the shape of ideas
And drench my skin in misty anticipation,
All while my hands sit on my keyboard
And my status shifts from “available” to “idle.”
Certainly not.
I'm too practical for poetry.