Slugging poems in a CVS parking lot
with a swig of iced black coffee,
like some sort of dead hipster detective,
when a realization slaps the back of my heart.
I've had a few dreams wreck me,
and a few I never wanted to leave,
but we all must wake up.
I should've been a comedian instead of a poet—
different open mics in different basements—
distracted by the arrogance of time
seen from behind my youthful eyes.
Poetry was easier then;
it is harder now.
I wonder if it is because I am happy?
I want to recall lost lists,
and remember the idiosyncrasies—
the bananas and the benign times
in which everything was nothing.