working class poet

Working class Poet It had been a long day at the factory but when there was a break, he jotted down a few words and during the day, it became a poem- he always had a pen and block ready, words were so flighty he may forget what he wanted to write if he waited too long. Coming home, told his wife I wrote a whole poem today think it`s a good his wife asked if the poem was about her, no he said it was about a tree the one at the entrance of the village. His wife walked back to the kitchen the slam of the door was sad. The poet came out of his cocoon and said to his wife: All my poems are about you, my muse, with you at my side I can`t write about the old tree at the entrance of the village. They kissed and made up, both lived long and had a good death blissfully unnoticed by the world.