The fourth: the poet upon a bed

Can’t think.
What is a poet without inspiration?
I haven’t read any good poetry lately.
It’s all a farce, anyhow.
I’ve been watching movies all day,
and now Richard Gere is on the screen,
in a blue bathrobe; the side of his face
is profiled, his hair is grey, and although
he is trying to sound tired and dull, he can’t.
He doesn’t look to be the kind of person
who can write poetry, though.

But a poet is not writ on the skin,
but in the hand. It is not the sparring
of the soul against the mutiny of the world,
but rather, it is the humiliation of defeat
before the awesome presence of a golden drum,
forever beating day by day, past the horizon,
and knowing that with every pound,
you lose one more breath of air.