Tendering My Resignation or My Last Poem

I woke this afternoon
and no longer wanted
to be a poet.
There was no fame in it.
There was no name in it
and certainly no money.
(That was my last rhyme)

I fell asleep
to words twinkling
in my head like stars.
When I woke
the windows were
clean with light.
I began to speak
in sentences with
no metaphors or similes.
(Those were my last metaphors and similes)

The questions I have been raising,
the ones with no answers:
I put them down and
pick up a tennis racket.
My friend is across the net.
One of us will win        one will lose.
I watch TV.         I ride my bike.
(No more caesuras only plain speech) 
I am not a poet.
I will not die for poetry.
I will live for life.

(One more
for old times sake.
There's something so
beautiful when
words are broken
apart
from each other,
when I
look at one
thing and see
another)

At last, I know
what I'm doing:
I'm giving it all up.
(My last stanza)

Goodbye