By David Meyers
The words don't seem to come
as often as they did
when I was broke,
living in tents and barns
or on friend's sofas,
when I drank a bottle or two
of cheap wine through the night
and stabbed the ashtray
full of cigarette butts,
when I sponged off churches
or the government,
friends or acquaintances,
for food and clothing,
money and cigarettes,
when unhappy women
tore me apart
piece by piece.
When I was at my lowest,
the words streamed like tears.
Now I make a good living,
own my own place,
do yoga and ride my bike
on mild autumn days,
date women who have careers
and read interesting books,
drink in moderation
and come from stable families,
and in my placid contentment
the words are as infrequent
as the tears, until the only
thing left to vent about
is why I'm not writing
Following graduate studies at Brooklyn College, David Myers hitchhiked throughout the United States and Canada for 18 months, resulting in his first novel, Road Scholar(2004). His prose has appeared in Istanbul Literature Review, Lullwater Review, Wordriot, Nerve Cowboy and Barbaric Yawp, among others.
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