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Poem

A little social hour. You are a writer? Eye roll. Yawn. Laughter. 
For StatusQuo does not understand why; it does not make money.
Whereas you do not understand how you could ever not write.

StatusQuo drifts away. You make up sword-slinging stories about the red head.
She is slashing pirates right and left without any thoughts of saving any
Until she comes across a miniature female red headed girl and a parrot.

You write poetry? StatusQuo says in a sing-song, make-fun-of-it-way.
Yes, you think. I do, and it is marvelous, ridiculous, great and awful.
Never knowing who this and that will appeal to. Your muse not caring.

You do not have to wander far before you realize how lame conversation is.
Going to have to dress it up, add adjectives and adverbs to make it pretty.
You are going to have to fabricate and twist it into something fun to read.

StatusQuo dismisses you as a kook, a nut, someone who is unemployed, lazy.
You do not care, for you are no longer exist in this room at this time.
You are in a Paris café, drinking a delicate coffee, watching strangers.

Strangers who turn into astronauts, bouncing around the walls.
Strangers who crawl under silk sheets and have your imagination gasping.
You no longer care because you are a writer. You are a poet. Your muse laughs.

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