Poetry

I would love to make poetry the way Raymond Carver wrote.
Taking something trivial--- one ordinary night,
An act—walking home--and redeem something,
portray some truth—what runs through, what carries a man
from walking at night to that realm—where walking blurs and
only thoughts, images, memories reign to get us through
the act of prowling.

It is what I love about him as a poet, how nothing
is sacred nor personal. Each pain, every non-event a poem.
The mother asking for money, his anger, what set him off--
alcoholism, the estrangement, the gift of being alone,
of cancer.
For while he is renowned for his short stories it is his poetry
that fuels.
If someone like him, burdened with alcoholism, poverty and death
can still find something beautiful out of life, why the hell can’t I?