That’s what he told me to do
The man with the magnificently grey hair
Soleless shoes
Write a poem in ten minutes
So that is what I will do

Bukowski comes to mind
Then again
His ten minute rant turned out nothing but a waste of our time
And this?
So what do I have to do
For this poem to make it inside my red folder…
Be a soldier to the cause
Rely on my gut instinct
I’m my own worst critic
Ten minutes isn’t too long a time
Just enough
To play about with a few sentences
To use my rhyme
To the best of its ability
Might be tripe
Or it might just turn out to be pure quality
Truth told
I’ve a sneaky feeling this isn’t really working
So I’ll need to up my game
Stop thinking about things
This and that
The utter disdain
That other ‘writers’ will bring to the fore
How dare you write a poem in ten minutes?
That’s trite
You doing that
While we spend decades trying to make our body of work
Feel tight
Make it read right
I don’t care about other ‘writers’
I won’t be a writer ‘til
I fetch myself that book deal
I can’t not rhyme
Because that’s not a poem
It’s a story
I know, I know
I’m quite contrary
That’s true even at the best of times
But it doesn’t matter
I’ll stick to my rhyme
Fact of the matter is it just might end up making me a dime
Or two
Ten minutes are up
I know, I know
What you’re thinking…