let’s dance until the roof caves in

sometimes
those old days come back to me
and I see them there
smiling and brittle and waving:

days that turned into long nights
that turned into sleep at dawn
all-the-while
drinking
and smoking
and writing
bad poetry,
spinning until the rubber came off the rims
burning until the soul gave out
until the heart beat its last
and deflated
like a thick balloon.

what a time it was

what a ride

I still do all that now
but in moderation:

the drinks are fewer each night
the smokes are cheaper
and the poems are better for the most part
but ever fewer than the drinks

and I’m in bed hours before dawn

hell,
I actually write in the mornings now.

what a time it is

what a ride:

more responsible
but
less romantic. oh well.

nobody wants to know those kinds of poets anyway
if they want to know any at all.

now I change the tires on the regular
and make sure that I wick the candle

and I do what I can for the old ticker
to make sure that at least I can dance until the roof caves in.