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About This Poem
My Life Isn't, Exactly
My life isn't exactly
what I'd have wished for,
had I roused myself to wish.
I might have lived a life filled full,
puffed with particularity, and limited:
boundaried by Plymouths, VA loans,
and bills from Dr. Bill.
I might then have shaped my mind
to fit a space, quite small,
where largest loomed my daily cares.
I should then have been content
to hear the patter of small feet
upon cement of terrace, porch, basement
or garage, and to emit, upon request,
a well-designed barrage of timely
chatter, to complement the patter,
to pace the ticking of the clock.
But no...I cannot to such rhythms
and designs become resigned...
must play the nomad (and the bard)
till play and I be ended,
low or high, and must try
to know, and yet not know,
the great vague How, the What,
the Why...
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