As The Poems Go

As the poems go into the thousands you

Realize that you've created very

Little.

It comes down to the rain, the sunlight,

The traffic, the nights, and the days of the

Years, the faces.

Leaving this will be easier than living

It, typing one more line now as

A man plays the piano through the radio,

The best writers have said very

Little

And the worst,

Far too much.