poem of the day 04.14.15

failures

to the ones sitting in suburbs

leafing through yellowing film scripts

to the ones sitting in office meetings

with no desire left to draw or paint

to the ones stuck in traffic

reciting old lines of dialog from long dead plays

the lifelong admin assistant still hungering for the stage

to the ones too old to dance

or take their clothing off for salivating men

to the ones whose hands are too shaky

to make anyone’s body their canvas

to the ones whose guitars have become statues

resting in corners in their homes

the ones thinking about getting the band back together

to the ones who are still cooking that novel up

in their heads while teaching a writing class

to the ones who write poems like this

in cold bedrooms as they turn another year gray

to the ones meant for five star restaurants

instead of backyard barbecues on the fourth of july

those poor fools surrounded by cracked bowls and candle wax

to the ones the ghost of rodin has shunned

or the ones pasting pictures of chickens

next to images of the moon next to car crashes

to the ones blogging about their neighbors

instead of getting it down for the new york times

for the crafty mothers and fathers rushing their kids to daycare

bemoaning the passage of time

as the anti-heroes of  their youth

are being given the keys to the city

or having dinner with the president

to the ones too self-conscious to pull a rabbit out of their hat

and the ones who watch dull buildings being built

for the stained glass artists and the folk artists

and the quilters and cartoonists put out to pasture too

and to the ones for whom getting up

and simply getting through another day

has become their last

and only tangible piece of performance art

that anyone here will ever see.