This is not a poem

“This is not a poem”, I said.

“And I’m not trying to be all Matisse-clever, either.

This is not a poem

And I am not a poet.”

“I think that’s sad,” she said.

I guess she probably meant it.

“Fuck you.” I said.

What else do you say to someone who calls your point of view “sad”?

(Also, I’m not very nice, sometimes.)

There was a pause.

“Why should I call myself what I am not?” I asked.

“Why would I?

I am not a poet.

I work in an office.

I am a shoe salesman.

I am a waiter.

I run parts through a furnace.

I deliver pizzas.

This is a hobby. Maybe.

On a good day.”

“Well, I am an actor,” she said.

“I am an artist. I create.”

“I hate to argue,” I said

(even though I don’t, really).

“You are a bartender.

You are a college student.

You are a trust-fund baby.

You are a landlord.

You watch other people’s kids.”

“That’s not WHO I AM,” she said.

(And I could tell from her face that she was beginning to get mad.)

“That’s just what I do.”

“What’s the difference?” I asked.

There was another pause.

This one lasted quite a while.