When and where do poets work I ask
as I sit on the bench near the canal.
There are toffee wrappers around
and empty coke cans
and duck feathers.
There’s dirt under my feet,
my hands are dry. People rush by,
clouds fly by, too,
—only the breeze stays awhile, loyally.
I once heard that where there’s pain, poetry
happens. I disagree, strongly, Sir.
Where there’s pain, more pain
happens, because hurt people hurt people,
that’s how the story always seems to go.
But what do I know
—and that’s not why I’m here anyway!
I came here to breathe, feel the freedom in my chest,
think outrageously for a bit.
I came here to go to work eventually,
and this is the way to get there.
So after the sun’s gone down—
the most rigorous alarm clock there is—
I return to my tiny little place under the roof
with those slanted, whitish walls,
those creaking wooden floors,
that charming book nook by the window,
the wine on the shelves, next to the chessboard,
with that wide, nearly visionary view.
Now, this is a time for nakedness,
either in bed or on the page.
I’ll take the latter tonight, intensely so,
with seemingly just as much risk
—and a different kind of romance.