Poem In The Bank

It just isn’t like that.
There’s no back up supply when the well is dry, there’s no

new poems savings account to
check yes I would like to make a withdraw from when it’s all been spent —

it just has to wake up with you, rise each day anew
and sometimes it won’t, it just can’t, it just don’t.

Inspiration is running low, time is a ghost
slipping away into the corners each time you think you might

stand a chance at seeing him, hiding, yet taking all the while
there’s no money in the money bank, no poetry in the poetry bank

there’s just waiting and seeing
enjoying what is when it is and

making sure every morning there’s somehow coffee, there’s somehow words
even if it’s bitter and jumbled, even if it’s cold and confusing — look,

we can’t all be philosophers every second,
we can’t all wax poetic consistently in a pandemic —

Our nerves are frayed and ragged with each new day.