Ian Copestick writes

My Dilemma

Under a mediocre, gibbous moon,
an indigo sky with lilac clouds,
and
orange sodium streetlights I saunter
through the streets of this nothing,
little town. A cigarette in my mouth,
a scrubby, two week growth of
beard
on my face, and confusion in my
forty seven year old mind. Is it better
to struggle and scrape every day,
trying to be pure, to be a poet?
Or should
I massacre my days, get a job in a factory,
try to write in my exhausted spare time
but at least be able to pay my own way
through my life ?
This is my dilemma, and I don't have a
clue. What the hell is the right thing to do?