Poppy

Only fools write poetry, someone famous said, but it's better than sitting aimlessly or taking to my bed. I'll find the quote in Bartlett's and stow the fact away, more useless information that I'll never get to say. 'Cause when I spout my knowledge, their faces all look blank, a scholar among peons, yet the lowest of their rank. They have degrees and knowledge, too, I show them great respect, but their knowledge is all technical, their orbits circumspect. So here's this mind filled to the brim with poetry and quotes and names of birds and languages, the words catch in my throat. I used to feel superior, my knowledge made me vain, and I looked down on people whose vernacular was plain. Then life showed me that I was wrong, my learning was a waste, worth's measured by a paycheck, and where the decimal's placed. So now I sit in silence, my tongue forever bleeds, the high and mighty smart ass, just a poppy among the weeds.