how poets do

like accountants
poets work alone
grinding out word minutia
and are essentially worthless
except for what comfort they bring

they read a lot, enjoy the out of doors
often from a window
drink, smoke and unless someone cooks for them
eat lousy

are unaware of the time
yet, come early for appointments
choose to wear the same dull clothes and
sleep easily each night with untroubled minds

when at night i close my light
tuck myself in, covers to my chin
vivid dreams leap on me
and if the window is open
the wind will carry slow motion
under water blurry pictures directly into my head
that come alive in swirly drama

entertaining dream-rooted inventions of what could be
flash on an off as humming trucks roll on
through the night on distant blue highways
as heavy metal trains sound a mournful melting Doppler effected melody
calling hello to you, hello from me

awakened in the night
to listen for what is there
and what isn't
often getting up to write a line,
an idea to pursue before it evaporates,
then fall immediately back to deep sleep
like babies do, until morning

i admire other poets i have read
how they hop-thoughts on the pages
i know they do as i
for that is how it is done
alone in thought
one by one by one
for ages upon ages

let me slip-roll into sleep
for another jumbled, bumbled,
senseless journey
until i wake
but, not too early