the young writers

never cap your name anymore.

you’ve become a lower case.

no longer seated on the supreme court

you’re now reduced to small claims.

lower than angels,

lower than animals,

lower than poets.

the front office has sent you

back to the minors

to catch wild pitches in

boozy crabgrass bullpens

in bankrupt towns

where wannabe starters call you “pops”

and one or two sort of remember

you were somebody

back in the day but no one bothers

to google your stats.

they’ve slipped you down the slippy slope

to lie in a hidden valley

where all the others of your ilk

now slumber.

what’s your day like now?

playing mahjong with athena

fly fishing with posiedon

swapping stories

that gather dust on moldy shelves

without a throb of pulse.

just one of the broken marbles

lying in shards, overgrown with weeds.

but don’t despair

you can wait us out.

within your lifetime

the next big bang will come

and bathe the crust from your

seeing eyes

and you’ll create that first day

better than you did last time.

everyone learns from their mistakes.