It’s easy to take for granted the way
the phosphorescence of solitude
ignites a thousand poems.
Not all of them good, of course.
In truth and hindsight,
most were un-notably awful
and overly enamored of lank-haired boys
who didn’t rate a reciprocal glance
much less a rhyming couplet.
The unremorseful exuberance
of so much twentyish angst is
Would now I could
dredge one bullion ounce
of such lyrical fervor.
-Lo, attempting a comeback.