so I write
never asking for this cup to be passed to me
but it is my turn to drink of its bitterness
or of its sweet nectar
depending on what day it is
or
who reads my poem
or
whose poem I read
and I will not criticize
nor will I critique your pain
your death
your happiness
your ecstasy
same in verbiage
but a different climax
pain and/or pleasure
wondering
will your poem hold me in the wrinkled aftermaths
leaving loose change on the nightstand
the sounds of your works lightly closing front door
careful not to wake me
but your tires screech from the driveway
down the road
never to be seen again
or is my poem a thumbs up from a poetic Caesar
or death in the dust
last gasps of a poetic gladiator
or will your poem leave me
again
prostrate
desert dazed
poetically parched
seeking the nearest oasis of pen and paper
somehow
I must continue this
high
this jones
your poem laid on me
veins pulsating to write a poem for you
this cup
I drink in all of its bitterness
or of its sweet nectar
rite of passage
on to the next
writer of poems