what a job, being a poet

what a job, being a poet,

like carrying an empty box

up ten flights of stairs

with your lungs blown out

only to find

the building never existed.

writing doesn’t pay the rent

or quench the thirst,

but there you are

at three in the morning

with your liver screaming quit

and a line

stuck in your throat

like it’s the only damn thing

worth spitting out.

people look at you funny

“a poet?” they say,

like you just told them

you collect strangers’ toenails.

they want to know

when you’ll get

a real job.

but you keep going.

you keep writing

like an old dog still biting

though he’s got no teeth,

because you know

the world is packed

with well dressed liars

and you

broke as hell

you’re honest.

what a job, being a poet,

no boss but a thousand voices

shouting inside,

digging through filth

searching for beauty in garbage

and sometimes

just sometimes

you find it

a crumpled bill

in a dead man’s coat.

being a poet means losing

and still writing.

living on the fringe

and still

leaving something scribbled

on this damned world’s walls

before you go.

and that,

that’s worth it.