62100
so I write
never asked for this cup to be passed to me
it's my turn to drink it's bitterness
its sweet nectar
depending on what day it is
or
who reads my poem
or
whose poem I read
and I will not criticize
critique
your pain
your death
your happiness
your ecstasy
same in verbiage
but
a different climax
pain and/or pleasure
will your poem hold me in the wrinkled aftermaths
leave me
with loose change on the nightstand
sounds of your words
departing the front door
tires screeching from the driveway
down the road
never to be seen again
or is my poem
thumbs up from a poetic Caesar
or death in the dust
last gasps of a poetic gladiator
or will your poem
leave me prostrate
desert dazed
seeking the nearest oasis of pen and paper
I must continue this
high
the jones
your poem laid on me
veins pulsating to write a poem for you
this cup
I drink in all of its bitterness
its sweet nectar
and pass it on to the next
writer of poems
