1. Metapoem
I can’t do this, I say
to myself in the dark nights
of the soul when all of the world’s
miniscule frustrations bunch under
my skin to zap me with electric shivers
I can’t do this poetry gig anymore
I can’t teach another class
I can’t fish ideas out of my cobwebbed brain
I can’t think of anything to say at the dinner table
I can’t bear this 2 AM hour or this pain in my breast
I can’t open Facebook or Instagram or The New York Times
And then somehow I fall back asleep
and wake up, grumpy, sore, befuddled
thinking: here I am again, and
I guess I’ll just have to do it
after all
