This Isn't a Poem (but I thought I'd whine a little while)

This Isn't a Poem

(but I thought I'd whine a little while)

Sometimes it's as frustrating as a lukewarm bath.

I lie in it anyway, covered in comforting bubbles, waiting

for the piano to hit the sweet note, but it doesn't. I need

something more than room temperature for these cold bones.

I have songs, hundreds of terrible ditties I should never

inflict on anyone, but sometimes I do. We are

we, they say, like that's saying anything, but I suppose

it's something. Finally reading the Brothers Karamzov, and

I wish I could say it was terrible,

but it isn't. Of course

I'm only three chapters in, so

I'll have to let you know.