The words we use are sharp,

are functional, are bold,

are defined, are clean, are

double-edged.

We are no poets after all.

I could tell because from the window

of a late-night cab, the world is really simple.

The lights on the boulevard are bright,

are incandescent, are electric-powered.

The music oozing from the stereo

is trance, is techno, is rock, is jazz,

is new-wave, is rap-metal.

I could tell because the way we are

is the way a day drives by today, tomorrow,

and the random spaces in between.

We are masters of the mundane—

politics and a can of beer on a Wednesday.

We move as though on a chessboard

with movements that are intricate as clockwork,

that are cock-sure, that are exact.

By this time, you should know

that while we put ourselves in clean,

little defined boxes of thought,

wield words honed for the steal

and the kill, I watch your fingers jumping

on the typewriter keys. Your eyebrows knitted,

I feel your mind racing. Words sound like rain

when they drum as the clock ticks, as they flood,

until the storm is spent and there is another

story for another day.

By this time,

You should know,

You should know,

All you give me is poetry.

READ
Tale of a reluctant writer

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