if I was a real poet I would have a poem in the New Yorker
but that would mean I had compromised my literary soul
by sacrificing unadorned language for the obtuse lines
that are the hallmark of the college professor's
safe and uneventful existence.
great lines are written at home after a twelve hour shift
despite the screaming pain of hands as raw as life itself
or
after waking up in a seedy motel with flickering neon lights
with your wallet lifted by a girl named Candy.