The Poet Confronts His Inner Critic
Oh, admit it, it was you who stole
the pencils from my begging cup,
induced the green parrot to fly away,
advised me in a dream to avoid
the woods and the less traveled roads
and keep to the town.
Now you’re back, you bastard,
and in winter, too, as the frail snow
inscribes itself regardless on the sills
and sloping roof of this poem.
Order Lovesick, a poetry collection by Howie Good, here.
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