It’s A Pathology, This Poet Thing

I so wanted an emergency
to inspire me this morning
but instead had to make do
with a full night’s sleep
and a good mood upon rising.

If I get hungry I can warm up
last night’s nutritious leftovers —
who cares if I have good pasta
for breakfast?  I could keep it to myself,
I suppose, although we all know

I won’t, seeing that I haven’t yet, ever; 
what did you expect?   I will write on food
for food, love, sustenance;
will write about how
sometimes anger fails me, and how

angry that makes me.  Hell, I can conjure
a crisis out of anything
and make it last long enough
to hang some art on it…puts me
one step away from a politician,

a journalist, a captain of industry.
Better, of course, to sit and be well
with the happiness. To see what comes
from tolerating contentment.  To not have
anything come of it.  Maybe

I won’t be an artist anymore,
or at least not for a bit.  I could learn
how to tolerate that without making it
a crisis and then writing about it, but
seriously, would I still exist?