every time a poem completed,
its state of affairs, certified & feted,
the boys gather 'round, for serious
series of slaps on the back, and
drunken wisdom words,
"you'll never do another one, better, boyo!"
and the dread of correct
feels me up,
filling me up
with cream filling
whipped up
anxiety
of the now seizured defeated

as I grab a clean sheet from top of the stack,
and the retired muses overhear,
delightedly, whispering to each other
just loud enough to hear
me shaking tremble,
"and right they are,
and write they are!*"

and yet, ex-poet, still a fool…
9:42pm
Wed Aug 6
2025