I can’t help what inspires.
For the most part, it’s the usual old poets,
The budding new writers, the ancient great thinkers
And war hero fighters
Who help me form and shape my thoughts to words
With creative sticky-tape.
But, for the other part, it’s the absurd
When my writing is born and spurred in bacteria-sized moments
That are gone in an instant if not written when potent.
Like when I sat underneath the garden heaters
Outside the spring canteen
When the air was thick and warm
In tasteful coffee and kerosene.