Word Habits
I’ll have to take my word habits with me
For it just won’t just let me be.
“Don’t be a writer,” they say, “You’ll starve!”
But I don’t care if they toss, cuss, or barf.
They’re searching for my prose now;
Even disgruntled lungs must bow.
Suddenly, I see my poem stare;
Walk back to me with glare.
My book of prose was hidden
In a wallet of despair, forgotten.
Now it climbs down from the shelf
And tiptoes to me like an elf!
Shall I leave my word habits behind?
“You should have been a lawyer,” they reply.
Has the bench lost its residual touch?
Not that I care about the name that much.
Cocktail and smiles exchange faces,
The music walks into the tiniest of spaces,
A river of mirth riots in the air
Whereupon my pen climbs out of its lair.
So I take up my word habits again
It doesn’t matter whether wise or insane
For my pen has a voice of its own
Though some larynx got hers blown.
At home, when I’m not putting my feet up—
Watching TV or giving junior another wallop,
I rinse my thoughts in a little poetry or prose
And count them like beads from the dozen to gross.
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