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| Miles past where the road ends |
necessary the critics say
to go full poet, and you have
A leaning long evident
come to fruition
a focus of purpose
A voluntary solitude
a reduction of need
a welcome destitution
Troubled and profitless
and never good enough
riddled with doubt
But working, working
in a cone of silence
on the brink of poetry
Alive in a lyric of whispers
sharing your secrets with those
who bend low enough to hear
A few decent poems
the most you can hope for
in the years that remain
Finding yourself
miles up the beach
from where the road ends
A nor'easter is blowing
the trouble gene calling
no other way home.
