I am in the torch song business,
Proud to burn for love,
For the reader, for the strangers
Who find my dumb books in SF or Denver,
But mostly proud to light myself
On fire with page, pen and gaslamp.
The corner of my room is rented
To spiders who pay me
By catching flies and silverfish;
The closet is sublet to memories,
Most of which I wish would move out.
I get by one line at a time,
And the annual online compliment
From an ugly millennial
Who is “thinking” of writing poetry;
And to them I always say the same thing:
You are either a poet or a dancer.