they say that all dust

is old dust.

that the dirt on my Nikes

once mingled with the petulant British

sand under Caesar’s feet.

by this logic--

everything is old

because everything is dust.

by this logic--

all writers are

old writers.

so

the way I gnaw on the end of my pen

in frustration when I

c a n ‘ t  f i n d

the right words

is the same way Shakespeare chewed

on the side of his quill,

when he struggled to encompass

into mere English

Juliet’s resemblance to Helios’ brilliant

trailer.

or like I rub my eyes when it is

3 am but the absolute need to

get out my words

presses

presses

presses

could be muscle memory

taught to me by

Homer,

who rubbed his eyes when it was

3 am but the absolute need to

get out Achilles’ wrath and Odysseus’ longing

pressed

pressed

pressed

by this logic--

all writers are old writers

meaning all writers

have

to be writers.

there is no breathing room,

no option for

volition.

by this logic--

I have to be a writer

or there is one less

old writer in the cycle

to make a new

but old writer

later.

by this logic--

I am an old writer

like Virgil

or Marlowe

and

like they could not be

anything else but writers,

I have no choice but

to become a new

old

Writer.

so taking away

my words or

taking away this

must

of mine

would be equivalent to

ripping off a bandaid,

taking off a little

extra

skin

and ripping off

my identity too.