she asked
for my greatest hits
i gave her
my gradients
instead
the gradually
depriciating
deprecating
pieces of the swollen tide
within my mind

she asked
why
i write poetry
i said
look around
everyone does now
whether
they have anything
to say
or not
suddenly it is
en vogue
to pretend
to be a poet

she asked
if i was pretending
as she poured
the last
of the red wine
into her glass
her crimson stained lips
arching
into a smile
her eyes
focusing
on unfocusing
undressing me
as i thought about
the question

i couldn’t say
not really
i clearly
don’t do it
for the recognition
i have received none
or the money
i haven’t a cent
to my name
i am
no one
writing poetry
for maybe a half dozen people
to skim
on their way
to better pieces

she smiled
so you are truly
a poet then

or a fool
i answered

why not both
she replied

i couldn’t argue