Larimer Square

A part of me thinks that if I was braver I would end up in a place like this,

the street corner on a Sunday afternoon,

“pick a topic get a poem” scrawled in black ink before me,

bedsheet tablecloths and broken typewriters,

wondering if this is one of those places you read about

where artists go to die,

a shrine of cigarette smoke and sunshine,

alcohol as inspiration.

and as much as I’ll never admit it,

something in me envies them,

envies their willingness to become a poem unto themselves,

even if it is one with ugly edges and a bittersweet end.