lap dancin’ poets

cannot be trusted–
give them a few nicely formed words
and the next thing you know they are
sliding into your lap
I can dig it–
a few notes of inspiration
and perspiration
baring my soul, heart,
body, and my mind
to the world–
but when you end up in my face
I find it hard to think straight

hell if I know what
poets are thinking
one day they are crying
and the next they are drooling
over some flower
that popped up in their garden
or the sun rising and falling–
I suppose that is
to throw the rest of us off
in this odd, huge world community
where I can’t even trust
the dangling participles

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rain requires poets answer
typically I reply
often silent until
I have something to say
then you can’t shut me up
about who it is
that can’t stop crying
from the sky