writing the poem
is a demon on your shoulder
come for the feed
tapping his toe
sifting impatiently
through the contents of his pockets.
adjusting his wing
mumbling inanities.
the more you feed him
the more he'll come around.
and once he knows
there is food in here.
he won't leave
won't budge
never tiring
midnight,
2am,
4am,
never tiring
until he's had his fill.
the nice thing is
that so far
demons aren't picky eaters.
biography
analogy
philosophy
fiction
history
nonsense even works.
even now.
even this.
it's just punching the clock.
getting the pay.
buying the schlock.
at the end of the day.
i have a mouth to feed,
a little
gorgeous
demon
that i unwittingly
unknowingly
made my child.
i guess when he learns to read,
he'll find out.
even though he was a mistake
i did my best
and stayed up most nights
foraging
to keep him well.