Strathcona Hotel, Victoria

Outside is the muted blast

of a motorcycle engine

a dog howls

and the seagulls caw even at night.


Someone yells down the streets

and groups of youth laugh and howl

like packs of drunk street wolves.


I’m older now

distanced from them in mind

so I’m squirrelled away in a hotel room

on the third floor

high up and observant

listening to too much old bullshit jazz

reading too much

old bullshit Bukowski

and wondering why I’m not famous yet.


Because I’m spending too much time

in hotel rooms

thinking about life and writing bad poems

instead of being out in the street


living life

and writing good poems.

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