It could be serious
this thing that we call poetry,
or it could be lack of sleep,
of caffeine,
of chocolate
that drives us into the night,
into coffee houses
and restaurant-bars
seeking open mic readings
and slam competitions.
It could be a matter of survival
that makes us inscribe stanza and line
when the housework goes undone,
the laundry piles up,
the car needs oil
and the bills go unpaid;
or it could be that we are possessed
by the demons of our own ambitions.
Whatever it is
it cannot be denied
or put aside
for lesser loyalties.
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