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All you fuckers seem confused on this minor point:To Jonathan Penton's previous piece     To Part IITo Part II

Portrait of an Artist, No Longer a Young Man

I. This Is

This is a poem about contentment.

This is a poem without fire.
This is a poem with no time for passion,
the very thought of passion seems ridiculous in the context of this poem.
I'm sorry I mentioned it.
This is a poem that is very fond of cats.

This is a poem that the young will despise.
This is a poem that can be safely read for older audiences
for a bit of light clapping.
This poem will infuriate those poets who are given to rage.
This is a poem that L. will despise,
but this is not a poem about L.
Or really, this is a poem about L., but
experienced poets do not write poems
about untested poets,
so where does that leave me, slipping into old  age,
writing poems about L.?
Fortunately, this poem was written while
listening to Billy Collins.

This is a poem about Saturdays.
This poem is for those who do not work.
This is not a poem about the journey,
but for the destination.
This is a poem about how I'm still lonely,
but the loneliness doesn't sting so much anymore,
and that's all right.
This poem believes firmly that things are "all right."
This poem is very much about pot.
This poem feels that it's OK to get stoned
at eight in the morning.
However, this poem always takes its medicine on time.

This poem is not out of gas.
This poem does not want for energy.
This poem could simply care less.
This poem takes great pleasure in the fact that
Bukowski wrote this poem first, and called it
"War All the Time."
That fact leaves this poem rolling in the mother fucking aisles.

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