Writer's do a lot of wondering about why they sit all day in front of a word processer, beating their head against deaf ears.

Role Model

This morning I found mushrooms
sprouting like moldy old lovecocks
from the soles of my slippers.

I stumbled downstairs to my office
where I found an old man sitting on my office chair,
hacking up poems like a cat hacks furballs
onto the keys of my computer
typing away like the rhythmless doomfalls of eternity's last tapdance
his manuscripts teetering in great empires
as he hammered words out in a crazy gray blizzard
"What kept you?" he asked.
I stared at him like the father I never knew
"See you in twenty odd years," I said
and sat down to type it out