If I let this wet, half-dead poem see the light of day?
I’ve sweat over it for almost an hour now
And there’s still no spark, no beat, no jazz
The lines lay on the page…
What’s the word?
That’s it, flaccid
Maybe I should have hitched cross-country first for
Or moved to Greenwich Village to study
At the feet of the giants
Does Ginsberg still hang out at the Pony Stable?
I’ll give this one another twenty minutes
Before moving on
There are many other poems to be written
Dozens of them
And I have all summer to become famous
© 2016, Dave Allen. All rights reserved.
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