Critics

The critics in my head

are particularly vocal tonight:

an unruly sidewalk mob,

groundlings,gutter rabble, 

single-minded and strident, 

as my words try to push their way through,

catching elbows and feet every step.

What do they say? The usual:

None of this is going anywhere.

You were writing so much better

last year.

You're stupid, you put this on yourself

that you could do this--and for what?

What are you getting? No one really reads.

Oh, they might if you wrote something

worth a damn, not this drivel, no sir.

It won't always be like this, I tell myself.

Patience is the way out, the bully-beater

that will make them relent. Until then,

I will be their humble stenographer,

reporter and biographer, convince them that

their thoughts are pure genius,

totally new territory, profound

ideas expressed eloquently

and delivered with just the right

amount of force. Superb! Bravo!

Silver-tongued mastery!

I'll welcome them, catch them

off-guard with my flattery,

get them drunk on praise

and slip away from their

softened minds and do whatever

poetic thing strikes me:

observe the moon at five-minute

intervals; catalog the sounds

on the block, observe what happens

in six long breaths, find just the right

words for the shades of gray passing

overhead, read the dictionary aloud,

write imaginary dialogue for

people behind a cafe window,

order my espresso or pinot or stout

and sip slowly until the words come out.