I have been advised by my doctor to give up . .

I have been advised by my doctor
to give up writing poetry. It’s
really not good for you, he told me.
“Get away from that paper,” he said,
“put that pen down, and get a life.”

But it’s not that easy. I found a pencil,
half chewed but it still worked. You can
write poetry on the back of an envelope,
so I did; no-one need ever know, I reasoned.

They soon sussed me out. “You’ve been doing it again,”
said the wife. “You’ve got that spaced out look in your eyes,
and there’s an ink stain on your finger.”
Damn! I should have used biro,
it washes off better. But it was only a haiku, I tell her,
I’m keeping off the hard stuff.

Trouble is, for the poetry addict
there is no such thing as “just a drop”.
You’re in there for the lot if you’re in there at all.
I’m not going to write anything, I tell myself,
not today. I’ll be strong, maybe just read a bit,
just some Wordsworth or Keats, nothing modern,
nothing too dangerous. And I won’t inhale.

Then one day I tried this anonymous door,
upstairs room, Poets Anonymous. “I’m Bill
and I’m a - hang on, I’ve just had an idea,
where’s that paper, I had a piece somewhere;
anyone got a pen?” They threw me out,
had to, that was no place for a recidivist.

Back on the street, I made for the Oxfam
second-hand book shop. Then the library.
I am a hopeless case; I have to get my fix.
It’s killing me, I know, but I have to do it.
Sorry, doc, but I am a poet. I just am; and neither you nor I
can do very much about it.
There is no cure, though I suppose the government could try
rationing our paper, or taxing pens. It might at least
make some money out of us. But otherwise, just be thankful
there aren’t too many of us. Yet.