I don't write poetry for a living.
Who would pay
a wandering soul in empty space
occasionally getting hold of some snappy verse.
Appreciation sometimes I get
But from a distance
Like that of advertisement boards on a highway
Which will be forgotten at the next lamppost.
I pretend to create the poem at one stroke
throwing all the first drafts into the bin.
They get recycled
And some one else in me
writes on them in a different ink
at a different time.