Easy To Be The Poem

It was so easy
to be the poem.

To be the
small town
big family
boy flying
kites in
lonesome
cotton fields.

It was
easy to be
the poem.

To be
the happy man
fresh with love,
in love with
the girl
he met in college
the mother
of children
adored.

So very easy
to be
the poem.

Harder now
it seems
to be the poet.

If the Delta fields
were lonesome
then the grey
city sidewalks
are lonely.

Harder.

The haunting
taunting
memories of
painful separations

foggy flip
stomach mornings-
head pounding-
in line with other
stinking tramps
full of doubt
about the words
that I write.

So much
harder
to be the poet.

The days
spent asking
strangers to reject.
Nights filled
with crumpled pages
and a long slow
dance with
pain and sadness.

And bourbon and dope.

Harder
to be the poet
than the
poem.