The alchemy of language

William, I too rise early,
write poems every morning.
I set my standards low, and wait
until later to tinker with what comes
to me, what always comes, the way
the river flows to me, the woods
gather in grace around me.
But that is all we have
in common. Though I long
to write the mystery and magic
coursing through each molecule,
each moment, William, I am sick and stuck.
Not so far from your tranquil Lake Oswego
lurk the trailer parks on 82nd Avenue
that I escape daily but only
for an hour or so by
following your example.
Show me the way further, William,
take me beyond the Clackamas County
line, get me out of Felony Flats,
give me something to write
about besides addiction,
failed get-rich-quick schemes,
small betrayals, fistfights in parking lots
outside taverns, scrap metal, children with wary eyes
and dirt and snot smeared under their noses.
Make me a new life. Teach me the alchemy
of language, shine the light up ahead
to where the curtain finally falls
on this sad, sordid, stupid
white-trash drama.