And Thus Honest

It wasn't for money

or any kind of applause.

It wasn't for the sake of art since still today

most people that state to know about

donnot see as such.

It wasn't comfortable

since he would sit behind the typewriter among cheap cigar butts

while staring at cockroaches crawling up the wall.

It wasn't even nice since

he could turn on the radio and get Verdi

instead of Mahler. He liked Austrians better.

It wasn't even virtuous

since his room would always smell 

of stale vomit sitting around for days

or eggs cooked dry

if he was lucky enough to have a woman

but never butter.

It surely wasn't poetic since

he would have a hangover the size of an elephant

on top of his head.

It was just habit, he said.

Like taking a shit

or reading the newspaper.