I want it tighter, leaner, deeper

but the words won’t come.

They laugh at me.

You haven’t visited for a month,

they say, and you expect what?

A soliloquy, beautiful poem?

You lazy shit, they say, get

back to work. 

You’ve forgotten who’s boss.

I know they are right.  The words

always are.  They lead me along

brinks and rocking waters,

sometimes they take me with them,

we’ve been down there, where it’s

cold and dark and the water

fills my lungs.  But it’s ok

if the words are with me,

I can say, this is death and

somehow dying gets better.