Time for poetry

Are you a poet
the new guy asks, trying
to assess my fuckability

I don’t know how to answer
How do I say I’m too busy being
the creative force of the universe
to be his poet,
fuckable
or not

How do I say that being god
occupies nearly every waking moment,
and many sleeping ones,
that molding this glistening river
along the green bike path takes up
less of my time, really, than the
appreciating of it, and the rest
of the view from heaven

You created me, and I you.
The difference is that I know this,
and you do not.

If you did, you wouldn’t ask
if I’m a poet.