poem of the day 02.04.10

i don’t want to be a poet

i sit at the table in the foyer
that we use for a dining room

i’m drinking cheap burgundy

i don’t want to drink scotch this week

drinking scotch every week
has become a problem again

my wife is making dinner
usually i make dinner

it gives me something to do when i get home

it keeps me from thinking about
work and bills and neighbors
with televisions blaring through walls

i drink the wine

i tell my wife that i don’t want to be a poet anymore

i need to get back to the novels
to write something that resonates

she asks me if this is because
my co-worker has a novel coming out

is it because i can’t find an agent for my book

she asks me if i even like writing novels
and i don’t know what to say

i’m growing more confused and older every day.

i just sit there drinking the cheap burgundy
on a cold, endless february night
thinking i just don’t want to be a poet anymore

poets got the guts but they don’t get the glory

sometimes i want to shine
like the miserable sun
that always gets caught in my eyes.

i want to ask my wife if that’s possible

the glory

is that so wrong for a guy like me to wish for?