I was writing words strung together
trying to stack them together and make a little story
not a poem that I donīt care to write
when the electricity took a break.
Not that I minded living inland this happens.
I had a killer ending and wouldnīt let the flame of inspiration die out.
Five hours later, the light came on; I sat too long
in the darkness, the killer ending forgotten.
As I said, Iīm not a poet, a worker in the field of words
sowing and weeding, hoping for a good crop.
A farm-hand of words, I do my job and even unpaid
but proud of my cabbage and potatoes.
No, I have no orchids and roses.
Roll a cigarette, lit it and dreamily think of tomorrow
sitting on a stone fence built by heroes.