Because that's where my best work is done
and yes
that is absolutely an innuendo

So many poems lie unfinished
a couple of sentences of pure gold
(or sometimes silver and bronze)
written on napkins
and pages torn from library books
because I don't believe in tidy poetry
everything is stained with coffee
and brain sweat
very rarely is my handwriting even legible
there's a lot of implied slurring
between each line break
because it was either
stupid late
or
stupid early
and nothing sounds lucid
at stupid hours

This is where my Shakespearian prose
is discarded
with a flippant toss
and a
“whatever”
or a
“I'll finish it later”
relegated to collecting dust
and waiting for my
uninspired mind
to get up off its a**
and crank out some
literary genius
or even some
literary absurdity
anything really

I imagine most of it will sit there
for years
before I stumble upon it
in another attempt
to find my misplaced cell phone
I'll pick it up
as I skim over it
thinking to myself

Who, in God's great name, wrote this pile of dog feces?