I told him I hope to be a poet.

He said he hopes,
someday,
to scale a mountain,
to stand at the summit
with ice and empty air burning
his lungs, and scream
out over the land spread
like an ant farm below:
“Fuck you, world!
I’ve beaten you at last!”

I said I feel that way,
sometimes,
on those mornings,
when my shower runs cold
and my alarm blares
fifteen minutes late,
but outside a spear
of sunlight punctures
a raincloud, and a poem
coalesces in my brain.