I have taken to writing on receipt paper,
Sitting in the bar alone, sipping pints
And listening to all of the nonsense talk
From the revelling crowd.

Each one of us troubles with the fault lines
That appear on our faces, over the passing
Of the years. I don’t know what I’m writing
For anymore. There no career path in place

To make the whole dam thing work.
I know I should shelve my poems for a rainy day,
To refine them and sell them off as if they are art.
But, I see no value in the bulging of my wallet,

Save for the purchasing of cheap seats and wine.
So, why would I ever foreclose the spaces that I
Live in, when all I want is to be
*A voice at the end of the line?