A Bad Poem

It’s weird how, always,

I find my way
to art or stories,
though they weigh
heavy.

While I stand so,
I read—
or watched, I should say.

Having a Coke with you—
with you.

It was only a reel, you see,
but it reminded me
of bygone days.

The way I would feel
in theatre,
the way I would feel
in papers,

the small, rare moments—
those needles in hay.

And so, as always on such days,
I write a bad poem today,
because it feels like

poems have betrayed me,
art has betrayed me.

Though, truth be told,
it wasn’t them.

But neither did they
come back to cheer me up.

They only came back
reminding me
of their warmth.

And I hate that.

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