My writing buddy John and I,

Two coffees on the square.

Nice legs walk by, a pair.

John's smiling, but I cry:

"Don't you listen? What I say?"

"I'm sorry, buddy, but

My mind is in a rut.

A poem's popping up today."

Asun brings us cheese on bread.

The conversation stops.

John's ravenousness drops

Another poem in his head.

"What now? More coffee, beer or gin?"

It's a Catch-22.

John does know what to do:

A red-hot poem, coming in.

His inspiration's never dry.

He paints and writes and plays,

Creates in many ways,

While I just try, and wry, and sigh,

and cry,

and die

(goodbye)

Why?