I search through my wallet
looking for a poem I had
written while putting down
rail mix at a local apothecary.

It said something about the
sadness of potential.

A friend of mine hated getting
dealt a good hand when he
played rummy, said it was
to much work for what you get,
just waiting for that

one

f***in'

card.

And that smart ass sitting across
from you just keeps scooping those
threes and eights.

Maybe it is easier having a
life that isn't filled with
the big hands, just the little
ones, the easy victories that
we convince ourselves are
enough.

Finding a comb you lost in
the couch, a dollar in a
a winter coat

Someone once asked me
who my audience was.

I told him that it was
currently him.

"No, who do you write for?"

"Anyone who has seen
someone start someone
else on fire and wasn't afraid
to laugh."

Hopefully you are out there.

I like to talk and
have a lot of potential.