The Tyranny of Poetry

every night, late at night
i remember the obligation,
that casual commitment i made
months ago, to write a poem every day.
But my mind is empty,
my life is dull,
and I’m tired to the bone.
I go outside and walk
the neighborhood looking for
interesting discards, old beds
with broken frames, flowers I
don’t recognize in front of
the building that housed a porn
store the last 16 years, a bike
attached to a signpost with no
wheels or seat.
I look for the neighbor who
says interesting things from her
porch, and somehow a poem
comes out, sometime before
11:59 p.m. and I can call it a
a day well spent.