Ok; you’re poor
and so you’re forced to fill your days
with mindless, monotonous tasks.
A slave to work,
no secret savings stowed away,
but you can write!
You can compose!
Your Muse can make sweet music in your mind,
string wonder words together so divine.
And you’re a special poet friend of mine!
Ok, you wake
and aches and pains are waiting there
to ambush you like cruel assassins.
You swallow pills
and bind supports to both your knees.
Then day does dawn:
that day you dread!
But stanzas surface subtly in your soul.
And from a healing heart that once was torn
a buried thing of beauty now is born!
Ok, you’re tired
from endless nights of broken sleep
and diabolic dreaming.
Your weekend flies,
with Monday’s blues all waiting round the corner.
And you\'re washed up, like shell upon the shore,
but from the pier,
that fish hooked on my line,
I’ll fry it up for you; a dish divine,
\'cause you’re a special poet friend of mine!