Prepared to write bad poetry, I place
my muddled thoughts up front, my pen in hand,
and shifting in my seat, I set the pace
of meter pulsing: rhythm on demand.
There’s more to it than drumming – vowels grace
and consonants astonish, so the line
is not as much percussion as it’s bass,
and soon I’m dovening to words of mine.

I can’t resist the way the rhythm throbs;
it signals and I answer till I’m done.
And sure it’s true I’m born for it – my job’s
this work that doesn’t pay, though pay is fun.
So I’ll continue writing these for free
and salt away an office salary.