i suppose

i’m too happy

to be a poet this day

happy people tend to write

bloody awful poetry

however

i’m not drunk

i’m not high

i don’t need a spike

i like working in the city

i’m not heartbroken nor homeless

i’m not lonesome

i’m not horny

i’m not at war with god

politics

my childhood

or a neighboring country

i’m not married or divorcing

i rather love my imperfect children

this is a poem for my fellow writers

heavy bleeders of ink

succumbers to whim

dancers of vehemence and fury

freedom fighters of the fantastic

who dream in crusades

look how beautiful you are when you smile

you smell of lavender

newsprint and vanilla icing

all this

and i get to say

tomorrow is my birthday