Today’s poet can’t be fey and retreating
Today’s poet is running for his life
He is called upon to fight for his breakfast
And every other meal. He is required to feel.
He has to eat shit and shit beauty. All the while
Managing his rapture and goes without blinking
For days and days while he looks and looks
Into the dry wind of lies and trivia.
It’s a bad job but the pay is low. Making
A product that nobody needs until you
Give it to them. The cobbler can’t eat shoes.
Mothers, tell your children not to be poets.