I’d had enough of poetry,
I thought, to take a breather.
Six weeks, at least, not writing it
or, lately, reading either
would surely get my head on straight,
just like a normal person.
As weeks turn into months, I find
my mood begin to worsen.
Without a sonnet, jingle, or
an ode each day — a keeper —
the peaks of life are not as high;
its disappointments deeper.
The morning coffee’s not as fresh;
the eggs are pale and runny.
The music’s not as heavenly.
The jokes are not as funny.
The more I hurry past the call
of rhyme with rhythm in it,
the more my heart beats out of time;
off-balance every minute.
So give me back my daily versed
existence — one that measures
a steady stream to quench my thirst
and heighten other pleasures.