Forgive Me, Lewy Poem by Fred Babbin

We poets write of many things,
of shoes and sealing wax,
and whether kites have strings,
or how much coffee should we drink,
and whether it’s the time to think,
or wash the dishes in the sink.
We very often write about
The thing we did last night (no doubt)
Or how we’ll love upon the morrow
though love gives us such sweet sorrow
or the lust that keeps us from the rust
of death,
the rust that turns us all to dust.
And so we write all of this stuff
Even though it may be roughly written.
But that’s enough.