This guy at the bar the other night

tells me my poetry aren’t poems

but rather songs

as he takes my phone

and begins singing them to himself.

These are great man, he says

really good stuff here,

as he sings, flipping back his hair.

And I don’t stop him, because why

would I stop someone

who’s turned my pain into pleasure

when I’ve tried so hard to do just that.

Hell! This guy’s voice ain’t half bad!