mediocre poem

This is genius

the man said

real good stuff

where the sound of the streets

and steamer blowing travels

was reduced by his praise

and by the fact that it took

all it took from me

which was all I had

and still wasn’t enough

of it

because it was miserable

and unfinished

and reminded me of my mother

who moaned too loud

behind the room she put me in

to make sure I didn’t have nightmares

and if she did

she’d be right there

for me

while people came in and out

looking for genius

or something to leave them high

and happy and hopeful

to live through another day

for what is a day

but an extension of the next

where they might do something

worth doing

like showing this man

that it isn’t all that

and even less than what it is

for what it is was

and what was is

but mostly isn’t

which is this book

in the man’s hands

who points to points he liked

and the streets have quieted

and the steamer turned to ash

and all that was left

was a life spent

studying the genius

of others