(in homage to Billy Collins)

Most of the truly beautiful poems I know
Go something like this:
I was about to give up on life
When suddenly I saw (fill in the blank:
You, the beauty of nature,
The glory of God), and decided
That maybe it was worth it, after all.

I’d tired of that.
What happened to poetry’s golden rule:
That which others do unto their poetry,
Do not do unto yours?
Where is the valorization of despair,
The darkness devoid of divinity,
The clink of the coin at the bottom of the empty wishing well?

Late at night I scribble away
And morning does not always come.
The last line is a railroad terminus:
Graffitied walls,
Low ceilings,
Nobody going,
And nowhere to go.