I’m lost, I told him
(my old teacher).
I just quit
my fourth job
in two months
and I’m writing
a hell of a lot
but I’m living
in my car
and on other people’s
couches. My mother
thinks I’m a drunk.
My brother
calls me a loser.
My old teacher
just sat there
on that concrete bench
looked
through me
the way a poet does,
scratched his beard,
and muttered
But you still look good.
