Reflections of a Penurious Poet
Author's note: My mother wanted me to be a CPA. But of all the countless more useful things I could have done, should have done, and actually tried to do with my life, it seems, I have become, here, nearing the end, a wannabe poet. There are times I sort of wish I had listened to Mama. This piece, dear reader, is semi-autobiographical. I'll leave it up to you to determine which cheek my tongue is in.
Upon no laurels have I rested,
My IQ just once was tested,
And I've known since I was five I was no prodigy.
At Texas Tech I solved no riddles,
Split no atoms down their middles,
Never earned an MBA, much less a Ph.D.
One time I did, though, try to query
Mr. Albert Einstein's theory
About time, and space, and quantum relativity.
I asked the prof why study Al's extended family,
And he expelled me from his class in perpetuity.
My career, though never stagnant,
Neither was a money magnet,
Now in retirement I've more Social than Security.
And my portfolio's in tatters
'cause concerning money matters
That investment mumbo jumbo's just a mystery.
What do the IRS and Charles Schwab expect of me?
To make a living with my pen is my big fantasy,
But it's more likely I will one day win the lottery,
Or make more money in flea markets selling pottery.
If, as they say, an artist suffers for his artistry,
Then as a writer I guess I can thrive in penury
And never prostitute my art nor my integrity,
Though I would gladly sell my soul to publish annually.
But if my effort never pays,
I'll be content I've spent my days
Trying to pen the perfect phrase
And basking in the random praise
When a reader smiles and says, "Ah,
Now that is poetry!"
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