adam barricklow

Being A Poet

She asks the question, what's it like to be A poet, over lunch, shredded chicken sandwiches And luke warm vegetable soup, a question I have Heard on occasion with my poems now finding Their way into print other than my own.

I don't mind hearing it, though I know I am No Kerouac, other people and most assuredly Other poets won't confuse me for Poe or Frost, But she doesn't know that, and admittedly, I Don't mind the stroke of ego.

What I want to tell her is, I only see things In allusion and simile, that the reason why I Don't use more metaphors is due to a horrible Childhood accident, at age 7, that sadly left Me metaphor blind.

I would like to explain to her my relief when The Union decided that the required 27 hours Per week in a coffee shop had been cut down To 15, and that finding the right beret to go With every outfit, can be a real bitch.

But being my sister's friend I simply tell Her that at times it is tough, the pressure To produce poems as if I managed some Factory and they rolled off on assembly Lines.

A couple of days later, I wish that I had told Her differently, mentioned that we both likely Enjoyed curling up on the couch with a book, An old afghan, a cup of coffee or tea, but Most importantly an afghan.

And that before we dozed off to sleep, the Spine of the book stretched out like some Old cat at our feet, the floor, or upon our Chest, that we liked to listen to the rain Fall upon the windows of the house.

And other than the fact that I would notice, That the rain wasn't simply falling against The glass, but was actually writing Haikus By the thousands in a steady 5-7-5 beat that There was really very little difference