I've sacked my stock of readers

and see my followers decline

am I in decline here on the fainting

couch, lumbering towards what?



Jets ply sky above me, I've finished

THE HELP, and who am I to tell

anybody how to live or what to give

a rip about?



Fall in love three times a day

my poetry advice book counsels.

I write that down, but don't

take that crap from nobody.



Nobody can tell me what to do,

not even me. Books lean

along my shelf and I've gotta

come to myself before I leave



To do what good I can through

poetry. My love for words.

My joy in jostling them to make

them sing so I'll take wing.


See that's the thing so easy

to forget. That all the time

the things I love are smack

in front of me.



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