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
and writing good poems.