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Poet Hanging Over
It's hard to be a poet when
it's earlier than nine. You're
hanging over, soak and grog,
nursing skull and spine. Just
as sleep has settled with you,
you're ripped from plural soul.
Dreams debated, muddled through,
may crowd you or console. If
you're risen with alarm, and
silence rings betwixt, you
may be late or all too early,
to simply stand and give. But
all the matter to your sullen,
swelling lump of brain, is
the end of day to come and swallow
the dullest ache and pain.
