The excitable by nature will err—
so poetry is either correct or off:
offensive, dull, long-winded, short, hasty,
—the world’s too big!—
sentimental, never revolutionary, loving but hampered by a cough.
Rock star, poet, drunk; who was Jim Morrison?
The hidden, afternoon birds sounded like Hendrix
and she finally tires of fame and music. Exactly:
“How can this loser ever win?”
I’m sorry, my love, I tried. In the morning
I thought my poetry was the answer
but evening brings the horses in.