And I am called to be a poet.
Mad with boredom.
Flinching from finality.
Doused by depression.
And I must write power into being.
And then I must raze the building
and pick up ashen bricks of nouns
and verbs and begin building all
It’s not perfect.
The poem is stacked crookedly
and I must now stand beside it
while the parade passes me by.