The waitress said “Garbage”
She was right.
The painful realization
that I’m not Hemingway
Or Plath, or Neruda, or Rimbaud.
That I can never hope to be them
I don’t even have the balls or the hatred in me that made Bukowski
But I can watch her walk away shaking her fat ass
That doesn’t make me any more of a writer
Than the men going into late night movies
Leaving with wads of toilet paper
A literary ejaculation
To the way the world works
To the way children squeal
If I am the man going into these late night movies
Then I guess I am a writer after all.