I prefer the company of myself,
as I imagine many poets do,
avoiding hangers-on or hanging out,
often in quietude turning pages
or trying artfully to turn phrases.

I have too many friends to mention one by one,
who I can call upon any hour of the day
for comfort, advice, or amusing dialogue:
There's Robert and Billy, I find so witty,
and Walt, I think loves himself a little too much,
and Emily who I know is so very bright,
and young Edgar, with spirit so weak and weary,
and a thousand more I haven't the time to name.

But there's a price to be paid for spending
too much time in one's own head, busily
sorting syllables, images, and memories
into cobweb boxes in dimming corridors
lit only by the spark from firing synapses,
for future retrieval from crowded passages.
A thorough spring cleaning might brighten up the place,
but instead I keep packing and stacking them up
in the back like a desperate hoarder
with obsessive compulsive disorder.

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