The Chatty Introvert wonders how much of “a life” a poet needs.
Anybody who met me personally, other than wondering where the hell my energy and babbling comes from, would probably consider me to be the biggest square that ever walked about in my generation. I’m not much of a drinker, not a smoker, and more than a handful of college classmates told me that I’d probably be normal if I was on drugs.
My life is quiet, so to speak. I don’t talk to family much (there’s nothing to say unless it’s political, in which case there’s NOTHING to say). My sister-friend (only real friend and not casual aquaintance) is a thousand miles away or more. I work all the time and the only people I talk to are clients at one job (wisecracks make the appointment go faster, and keeps me awake), a few co-workers at work, anybody at Starbucks with 30 seconds or more to spare, and that’s about…
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