Costly Words
by Steven Hoadley

All I had left
were some bills
some baggage,
a bed crammed
into a corner,

and my books.

late at night
lying in bed
waiting for my little daily death
to kick in,
I would read.

I wanted Hemingway's toughness
Ginsberg's softness,
and Fante's pen.

I wanted to drink like Carver,
shoot dope like Burroughs,
and fuck like Bukowski.

I gave it my best
and it got me here.

It allowed me to wear blue collars
and sweep up floors
and swat at flies
and sweat alone
and share some words
that matter only
to me.

If I'd have known
that all those pages
and all those books
would have boiled down to this?

I would've stopped reading
long ago.

Now it's too late.

I'm tired
and it's time to go to bed.

I think I'll listen
to the radio tonight.