i can

i can write a poem about the rust on a chain link fence

or the fraying edges of my jeans

or the people in the magazines;

and you can read my poems about silent rooms in noisy halls where the personal emergence of a bead of sweat upon the brow of a thoughtful being is recognized, never disguised

the ears will hear, trained to detect the familiar trickle down an honest neck

a single speck of perspiration, a salty tear of frustration

from the left, i push my pen

closer to the finish, then

i break.