maybe i knew how to write,
write well,
when i was young,
writing about the trees, the hills,
or my favorite toy…
there was true honesty,
the Hemingway kind,
bulls in Spain
gorging matadors
with no sense of decency,
in an open stadium
surrounded by cheering aficionados.

maybe i never knew how to write,
misspelled rumblings
about desiccated trees, landslides
and plastic planes,
with no sincerity,
the Bukowski kind,
an unemployed postman
gorging shots of cheap whiskey
with no sense of decency
in an open bar
surrounded by jeering expatriates.

maybe it doesn’t matter how i write,
about anything,
but that i try,
as honest,
as sincere,
as misspelled,
in my own kind,
about who i am
as decent as i can be
in an open world
surrounded by fearing individualists.

 
Copyright © dho, All Rights Reserved