It occurred to me this morning that I’ve been spending a lot of my energy on editing poems rather than writing poems lately. Does all that creative energy and whatnot come from the same source? Is there a finite daily allotment? Or am I just being lazy and making excuses?

Honestly, I don’t really want the answer to those questions, so let me just say that the following poem is coming to you straight off the screen, fresh-written this morning, and has yet to feel the scarlet editing pen of shame.

Which is all a roundabout way of saying… go easy on this one, would ya?

reservation

all i asked for 
was a room with a view.

it could be a cheap room in some slumping house
or the presidential suite worth thousands per night,
but give me something with a view.

i want to see the ripples forming on forever’s surface,
the past & future melting in the furnace of today,
the 1967 World Series go the other way,
mysteries & monsters holding hands,
dumb luck come up roses one more time,

or perhaps a quick glance
of happiness through sunlight
before nightfall & madness.

give me that room,
non-smoking,
if you please.