'how fucking
trite, cliche, (add in
anything you'd like here) , '

i say, to my
reflection in the
window.

shirtless, alone, cigarette
lit at the tip, and a bottle
of whiskey hangs almost empty in my hand.

'you drink for hours, not because
you like the feeling -
just so you can go and write.'

i look at the bottle, which is now
empty and look at my car. then the keys
on the hook.

'oh! and i'm tired of being
alone, i'd rather not be a poet
anymore. it's just not for me.'

my reflection says casually, 'maybe
love will be like driving.'
and i know i have had too much

to drink.

Travis Bowden

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/maybe-love-will-be-like-driving/