-maybe love poems-

In the dream, the poets

who’ve made something of themselves

came to me, frustrated in reviewing

my attempts at writing what the world calls

for the lack of any evidence to be otherwise,

“love poems.”

I argued a weak defense before the

assembled court of the frustrated.

“what about this one, here?!” I pleaded

as I submitted: “the break-up with a true beauty”

for reconsideration.

the French scoffed and snuffed.

the Americans, their hands in their pockets,

whistled above their heads, while the Italians

cranked-up a "Pagliacci" tearjerker and wept, openly.

Christ. I was drowning in the sea of the frustrated, when

the Spaniard said: "that poem for reconsideration is about

love lost, William," shaking his head and his pen; pen like an inquisition.

“Is it?” I responded, bending low to examine the print.

but I woke-up in a frenzy, typical of dreams gone bad,

and damn! if it wasn't only Tuesday.