She was blond.
She looked good, wore blue jeans and was about
to get a tram in the morning.
I had a book in my hands;
a book of poetry.
It could have been the perfect start of a new day
If I just wasn’t going to work.
Work again
because writing poetry doesn’t
pay my bills and I decided to do something serious
to get the damn bills paid.
Worried about the heating, the electricity,
the summer holidays, the food,
the clothes and all the things you can find around
not to find yourself inside,
loving poetry in secrecy,
regretting not to sit down and write
as a crazy or an idiot
a few poems a day.
So, this morning,
I looked around and, most of all,
inside,
just to find out that I am back
on writing poetry
since it makes no sense
thinking about paying your bills
writing poems
as they just come as an urge,
or maybe as the dead remains of a broken organ
in my soul.
But it wasn’t the blonde,
I swear...
