So just how do you go about being a poet? Is it like a job you go to every day, from nine-to-five on the day shift, and collect a sort-of living wage? And then try to forget about it at night with TV and a beer? Because you can’t get back to sleep any other way.
Or is it more like being a doctor in the ER with its bouts of the most furious efforts to save lives mixed in with ear infections and people who took dares that they really shouldn’t have? And then, you go home but you’re still “on call” and you shouldn’t ever go too far from a telephone because the universe could need you at any time of the day or night.
Or you could be like a free-lancer, begging various people to need you — then you work every night past midnight and live on coffee because they’ve decided that they do need you.
And how do you apportion your days? Like, mornings to haiku, afternoons to the rhymed verse that the people in the Midwest think is all you do? Evenings, you stuff envelopes with stamps. You can’t do haiku in the afternoons because it just doesn’t feel right, somehow.
Then you could throw away the very idea of schedules altogether, and end up drinking in bars all day. It’s a quandary, I tell you.