Occupation:

There is no picture this time because there is no better picture for this poem than the one that partially inspired the poem. It can be found at the very stylish Daryl's blog.

If someone had asked me last week
"Who are you? What do you do?"
I'd have answered both by saying,
"I am a poet,"
And given a playful rustle of my succubus-tinged angel wings.

The world seemed a soft place
Like a loaf of bread
Or a still-warm bed.

But this week,
I am setting all the poems on fire.
I can drop them from my window
One by one like dying stars.

Below, there is a wrought iron gate,
Similarly solid stairs,
A cinder block wall,
And some sort of gravel courtyard.

Poetry,
Even if it is burning,
Will not phase them.

If anyone asks me this week
"Who are you? What do you do?"
I will say,
"I am nobody.
I deliver the mail."
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