I am not that poet

By A.E. Bayne

I could die here tonight,
overlooking the brackish back lot behind Riverby Books,
listening to Dylan get stoned on the turntable downstairs,
his vocals popping off the broken boards beneath my boots.
I am a cliché with my tablet full of lines and rhymes,
and yes, I could die here tonight.

I should be the poet to match this scene:
self-important in my cable knit with leather patches;
reclining reticently in a wing-backed chair
with worn padding, brush-stroked
in your grandmother’s favorite shade of mauve;
Eyes distant, ponderous,
and the arm of my glasses crooked casually into the corner
of my pensive pursed lips.

I am not that poet,
but I could die here tonight.