So Eat If You Want, or Don’t

One day it hit me—more smack
Up side my head than a punch
In the gut, I guess—I grab
More poems, in a week, than meals.

Yes, but are they good? You ask,
A spiced smile for a bland face.
No, of course not. Good has got
Not one thing to do with it.

They’re not the good kind of bad,
Nor are they so bad they’re good.
They’re just quick. They glint like sun,
Then twitch and swim off like ghosts.

This one could be the last one
Or the next could be the last,
Or more for a good long time.
I’m sort of used to them now.

One day they’ll be gone, like me.
Could be the same day or not.
For now, they’re fish in this brook,
And I’ve got tied lines and hooks. . . .