Why should I find work/
when I can write poetry?/
I’m a loser, right?

Doesn’t being too busy/
ever get lonely?/
I guess not/
when you’ve got/
a loving family.

She was right. She IS/
too busy. Hopefully, soon,/
I will be as well.

Holding my phone, I/
wait for a buzz that won’t come./
Like holding dead fish.

Numbers:/
__ since she called./
__ since she texted./
__ since we im’d./
__ since she emailed./
__ since she saw me./

What do/
numbers add up to/
and mean?/
Nothing.

Original
Numbers:/
39 since she called./
35 since she texted./
14 since we im’d./
98 since she emailed./
Minus 1 since I wasn’t on email./
38 since she saw me./

What do/
numbers add up to/
and mean?/
Nothing.

As I look back/
thru my poetry,/
I see most folks lack/
my intensity./
Relationships slack;/
they can’t keep up with me./

But y/
do I ask they they try?/
That’s insanity!

Once, a woman was/
more intense for me than I/
for she. I miss that.

I think of you thus:/
Blushing pink, soft petals, with/
the sweetest fragrance.

Late night.
Cool desert breeze
flows
through basement
windows.

Sweat drips
down my face
as I sit
and write,
solo,
into the night.

Thought I’m grateful
for inspiration’s
lightening bolts,
I thought only
menopausal women
got
hot
flashes.