I imagine the benefit
to being a famous poet is you become known
as “Poet” and writing poetry becomes
your job, and you can still be wearing
your pajamas in the late afternoon
a whole poem under your belt
in just one day—
the eight hour poem
which you may or may not love as much tomorrow.
As Poet, even free verse
has pulse to it:
inhale, exhale, inhale and so on—
the cadence of sonnets, haiku
keeping the beat that matches
the metronome constant in your head
the timing of your walk
seconds of your breath.
As Poet your office is the world,
the instruments of your profession
a folded receipt pulled from your purse
on the train. Three words come to you—
what you see, hear, smell.
You write them down, smiling,
confident that the idea will mellow
until you unlock it tomorrow
or tonight, feverishly, in bed
when the beast choreographs
itself into a terrible wholeness
through the drafter’s lens
the Poet’s mixing bowl.
A cup of coffee or spiced cider
will keep your hands warm and ready
to participate in the distraction
of glorious form.
As Poet, you are in charge of keeping
the rhythm of the world
beating steadily, honestly.
A simple art
sweat and joy
’til death do us part