THE POET TAKES ALL MORNING
The poet takes all morning to wake up sometimesâ€”
Sometimes daysâ€”sometimes weeks.
The poet eats too fast and asks for seconds.
The poet doesnâ€™t know what heâ€™s on about
But he knows thereâ€™s a word for it.
The poet doesnâ€™t care
If I make any money,
If I eat things that are bad for me.
The poet believes that anything
Worth doing badly is worth describing well.
The poet wishes we would move to Italy,
That Death was Beauty, and Beauty, Truth.
The poet wants to throw a party
And invite his dreams,
Then go home with someone else.
The poet believes in Blakesâ€™s God and Miltonâ€™s Satan
But canâ€™t sit still for the pew religionâ€”
He doesnâ€™t understand why the hymns have to be so bad,
Why the sermon is never interesting,
Why no one weeps at communion.
The poet falls in love with every woman he meets
And loses them because he falls in love with every woman he meets.
The poet lies awake all night
Watching the dying animal sleep.
Iâ€™m a novelist, I complain to himâ€”
I donâ€™t have time for these endless moments.
The poet says I need a break from the words marching all the way to the right margin and back again trying to make something happen, never just letting time stop to be here now.
Maybe, I say.
The poet takes all morning to wake up sometimes.
Sometimes he wakes up right away.
The poet laments there are more hours in the day
Than there are things to do them.
The poet rides in the backseat asking,
Are we there yet? Are we there yet?
And before you know it, of course we are.