I was going to write a letter to myself

the way a grieving man or

woman or child at a funeral

writes their feelings into the

grave pit of their beloved.

But that seemed too depressing

this rainy morning. So, instead

I decided I’d write a poem

the way a happy man with

a smile as long as a small,

paring knife writes a letter of

gratitude into an empty wall

with his eyes. I can’t tell you

how many times someone told

me writing must be therapeutic

for me. I don’t know, man,

I say to them every time by

looking away quickly and then

looking back, and just before

I respond by saying I suppose

therapy is sometimes a side

benefit. The truth is if writing

poetry was about feeling good

and being good I wouldn’t do it.

If I write it for anything I write it

to feel stronger.