And they with balding heads,
their half-dollar spectacles,
and beards that almost touch
the floor (when they lie down.)

With smiling metaphors
and metaphysical similes,
and insights of all that’s nuclear,
I find it more–unclear.

Maybe it’s because I work
for a living–A real job
that pays real money
which is always enough
to be starving,
but not an artist.

A love found by the oceanside
or with the girl next door
seemed foreign to me.
Maybe it just didn’t happen.
Or I blinked