Wannabe Tears

dishes are all done,
plates stacked and dried,
w.annabe poet lifts pen to regale
about one day he cried.
scrubbing for words
to put life into an emotion,
sorta like looking for New Youth
from the latest hand lotion.
top 40 amping at 60,
cds from latter better days;
another February in Austin
as Winter works his hoary ways.
cross-legged in meditation,
another 31 minutes gone,
w. poet nasally focused;
the tear begins its fall all alone.
that jezebel totally shinered
and momma hit the floor.
baby comes March first;
what’s next in store
for all us readers
while the w. poet lumbers lame?
another fish Friday alone;
so what’s up with your game?
no radio for Lent,
and your sacrifice?
oh, we’re no longer catholic—
how awfully nice.
and all the journalists lie,
the job for a politician,
and you ask me,
‘why does a w. poet cry?’

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