Am I a poet? What does it take? I’m certainly no Dickinson or Blake, no Hopkins with his oozing oil, no Yeats in his Byzantium to keep a drowsy emperor awake. Just me, with slouching words and nothing of real consequence to say. So why put pen to paper, hands to laptop keys? Just that old desire to turn a crumb of thought into words that will inspire. But dang it all, a decent image have I nought!