May 16: "Poetry Collection," Furnace and Friends, "Working on a New Poem"

Billy Collins edits . . . 

Poetry Collection

by: Billy Collins

They mutter

in the alleys of the city,

the old ones

who were not selected.

It's a difficult thing, writing is.  It keeps you awake at night, wakes you up early in the morning.  Even when you're taking a break, writing is still always present, like tinnitus, ringing in your brain.

I have been up since before 4 a.m.  The furnace in my house decided to stop working.  Instead of blowing warm air, it was blowing cold.  Constantly.  I turned the furnace off and spent twenty minutes trying to contact a local heating and cooling contractor.  Eventually, I was successful.

The service person came out this afternoon and gave my furnace a fatal diagnosis.  He mentioned fireballs and overheating, cautioned us not to turn the furnace back on.  So, everybody in my house is layered up tonight in sweatshirts and hats and gloves, and two space heaters are cranking out some heat.  (A huge shoutout to my friend, John, who loaned us his heavy duty heater that is now maintaining a steady 68 degrees in the living room and bedroom.

And tonight I hosted a monthly Zoom open mic where some of my best friends warmed me up with their stories and essays and poems.  After a very long day, where I struggled and worried and fretted and worried some more, it was good just to relax and listen to everyone.  

Humans beings are messy creatures.  We worry about things we have very little control over.  We fuck up, over and over and over and over.  That's what life is--a series of mistakes, struggles, and challenges.  And it's our friends who pick us up, dust us off, and forgive us.  

Saint Marty gives thanks tonight for good friends and space heaters.  

Working on a New Poem

by: Martin Achatz

I wake in the middle

of the night when it cries

out, stumble to its cradle,

check to see if it's hungry,

wet, or just wants to be held.