VERSIFIED INTOXICATION
I sit at my desk
like I’m up at the bar,
disheveled. torpid,
like I’ve a had a few subjunctives,
metaphors and eye-rhymes
too many.
And there’s not even
a bar-tender
to tell my troubles to.
Just a computer screen
and it is my trouble.
I admit it, ok.
I can’t stay away.
My name is John
and I’m a poet.
I’ve been clean now
since…since…
since I finished up
that last poem
five minutes ago.
There’s no I can call
to talk me out of this,
encourage me to
go for a walk,
or grab a book
and head out to
the local coffee shop,
or, at the very least,
try working in prose
for a while.
The fact is,
“Nobody loves a poet.”
We lack self-discipline.
We can’t handle our words.
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