To live. Five for a softball. Four for a book,
A handful of ones for coffee and two sweet rolls,
Bus fare, rosin for your mother's violin.
We're completing our task. The tip I left
For the waitress filters down
Like rain, wetting the new roots of a child
I'm a quick writer. I know several poets, including my good friend Chris Buckley, who slave over their poems. For me there is worry, but the thought of revision sounds too "workshop-ish." I don't believe that the giants like Neruda or Hikmet or Vallejo worried about revision. If a poem does't work--and a lot of mine don't work--I put it away, usually for good.