Great barbecue discussion yesterday.
Someone was complaining about the indulgent nature of poetry.
I was thankful that a poem could be written with broken fingers, by anyone willing to wring one out at the end of some Hebrew-slave work day. The sober can write, the drunk can write, anyone with a napkin and a pen, can write a poem, where novels and short-stories are more luxurious endevors.
Which reminded me, I can write poems. I don't anymore. But I could.