my job, my writing station/am I a poet yet?

Employment lends the days a longer drink
giving studious (?) brains more time to...
Nevermind, I'll be realistic.
there isn't a single chance I'll be as productive
as my Motivation Board would like to believe.
Who is? really?
Are we all driven each day to be bigger badder bolder
flying on the wings we stiched together hoping they would
fit across our shoulders another day...
are we all outgrown, outworn,
the single sighless eves that bring the darkness of the night
where brains are turned on more fully
to keep bodies from resting aching, growing bones.
too much milk.
the body yearns to extend and stretch
the mind too busy pulsing to think of shutting up.

So, my employment.
the ol' workin hours,
that whittle at my patience.
Don't think I hate it here. I don't.
It's only that my mind wishes
I were more like the poets I court inside my head.
where's my willow tree?
my french cafe?
moonlit night above the bustle of a city halfway across the world?
my dreams carry me to a train station
leatherbound, eastward bound,
bound to end up writing something, anything.
Am I a poet yet?
Can I call the Cohen's of the world my peers
if only by mere kindled hearts we sew with the same
threadbare cloth that cover our backs.

Ah, my job, my place of work.
So it is here I get to write.
and not for lack of work to do, it's just this is when
my brain allows a little impish selfishness into my day.
So it goes, it's nothing to complain about.
One day I'll find my state of mind,
or it will find me, writing, sitting...
the day will come..
and I will be a poet.