The Poetry Alarm Clock
The Poetry Alarm Clock went off in my head.
Always seems to happen when I’m asleep in bed.
So I’m up scribbling only God knows what.
We’ll see later on if I had any luck.
Won’t know till morning or more accurately noon,
I’ve got to sleep off the side effects of what I’m doing.
Rotgut inspiration’s a cheap writer’s high,
The hangover isn’t gone till the sun’s up in the sky.
Then I find the chicken scratchings of a poem
In a hand remarkably like my own.
Did I really cough up that stuff? I always ask.
It’s hard to face my broken lines and own up to the task.
Someone the other day asked me why I write.
I heard why does she bother? To my face he was polite.
There’s no money in it, the rejection’s awfully bad,
Not much affirmation, not much glory to be had.
I guess I should be glad at least I’ve found my voice.
He doesn’t get it: I don’t have a choice.
There it goes again; I hear the ring.
Why isn’t there a snooze button on this darn thing?