Dirty Job

It’s a strange position.

Being a poet means you have to pay attention.

You have to drink a lot and

Do a little bit of drugs

But then you have to quit.

You have to forgive everybody.

You have to stop spitting at

Yourself in the mirror.

You have to read books.

You can never give up.

The poems are out there.

Watch the families leave the church.

Their lives are epic.

Their lives are cinema.

Watch this old wrinkled man

Shut the door to the bathroom stall.

He has a small brown paper bag and

He is smiling, smiling, smiling.

Watch the traffic go by.

They are sheep who learned to drive.

Its up to you to save them.

Feel it.

Take it.

Smother little explosions in your heart and

Write them down later in a notebook.

You finally admit that you miss your dad.

You should have done things differently.

You want to call your mom.

The wind comes in flavors.

The music plays between your ears

At all times.

It wont stop.

Its your life’s soundtrack.

The most beautiful girl in the world

Makes you some coffee and

You’re so sad you’re happy.

You cry until you feel good.

You drive down the street you grew up on and

You feel the sun in your stomach.

You’re on a mission.

You’re Charles Bukowski’s bastard child.

You’re a warrior from the ancient plains.

Go ahead.

Jump off this building.

You will fly.

You can’t kill a poet.

 

 

Copyright Tim D.

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3 thoughts on “Dirty Job

  1. I loved this poem since I first heard you read the rough draft. The finished piece just gets so close to what being a poet means. Phrases: “you feel the sun in your stomach” and “the wind comes in flavors” just stun me.

    Like

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