Sunday, December 12, 2004

Purse

Again, with
Pen poised over paper,
He sits to deliver
Verse.
Like a pregnant woman,
Now in pain,
Now stifling a
Curse.
Words fall about him
Haphazard and
Terse.
Now he perms,
Now he slashes, then,
Confines them to the
Hearse.
For it just isn’t so
He can’t get a go,
Hanging there high-strung,
He’s left for the
Worse.
His child cries for
Her mother,
Who’s left him for another.
He knows not how he’ll
Feed her,
He knows not how he’ll
Nurse.
His landlord stands
Taller,
His debts aren’t getting
Any smaller.
Yet, he waits
In vain, over paper,
To catch the eluding
Verse.
He waits
Like a man in haste
Now expectant,
Now mouthing a
Curse.
(Sigh!)
Poetry my man, springs
From honest thought,
Spontaneously begot.
It cannot be
Curried together,
You see, just
To feed a lazy
Purse.

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