Bukowskian Poem by d m

i wrote
again.

(a minor miracle: after
8 years of not caring for the craft
let's call it deviceful degeneration,
unintentional uninspiration)

the thing about
nearly getting better
is
you start
thinking you're better.

i wrote something this week
(it wasn't bad)
sat back in the chair like
i'd just nailed
a wasp to a wall
with a pencil.

but this morning—
the poem's still there
and the chair still squeaks
and the rot in my ribs
hasn't gone anywhere.

eight years
of eating my own teeth
chewing time like
it owed me something.
'writer's block'
was a nice excuse
for cowardice.
so was
'perfectionism'
but now
i've got words again.
& i just realised
they don't save me.
they never did.

the poems may come back
but what if the fulfilment
doesn't?

so what now?
what's left
after the confetti
after the applause
dies in your own throat?

you write.
maybe you write.

even if
no one
is waiting.

even if
you
aren't either.

& if the ache comes back
(which it will)
you greet it at the door
let it crash on the couch
pour it a drink
& say
fine.
one more night