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.