It is too early to spin a poem.
Too early to know whether it is good or bad.
Too early to care.
It's here, I suppose,
That I wish I were something more
Than a poet.
Something useful or brave.
Something efficient perhaps,
Or strong and powerful.
Like one of those
That stand at the helm of industry.
Dear God - save me from that!
But then at least,
I could pretend that I was wanted.
Then I would stand with my head erect
And beguile myself into believing
That I am respected
For something more than
What they use me for.
Then, I would feign that my friends
Were friends forever.
And pretend that they loved me
For something more than my success.
We'd roam the golf courses
Discussing things of no import.
My home and office would be full
Of well wishers
And I'd spend my money
On useless gifts
Knowing all the while
That they'd ruin them in the end.
But we'd play the bluff.
And have a great time of it
While it lasted.
One thing for sure,
I would not sit at five thirty in the morning
Wondering at the silence,
Letting it move upon and around me
Like dark natives
Deciding the fate of their captive.
I wouldn't spend my days
Staring out upon an unseen world
That looms like fairy goblins
And fretting all the while
Over those
Who don't believe in such things.
But I suppose
That a man must be something.
And in the absence of all that
Which I might have made of myself,
Had I been strong or efficient or useful,
That I'd might as well say what can be said
While it can be said,
Be it good or bad.
And content myself
With the approval of the fairy folk.
Would to God
That they would let me
Get to my breakfast!
