Writing a poem is harder
than walking the dog or
raking the lawn.
It’s more akin to
painting a watercolor
or cooking a souffle.
The start’s the worst,
the foreboding blank page.
My first few lines are
trite, blah, so discouraging,
but I talk myself into persisting.
I get most inspired when
writing tales of my childhood.
In truth, I was an unhappy child
but in my dotage I permit
only positive memories.
My poetic aim is to provide myself
with a more enjoyable youth.
My most intractable problem is that
I’m not naturally poetic.
I write more like a bookkeeper
or perhaps an airline pilot.
Nothing emotional or ambiguous.
Just clear and to the point.
I do like to rhyme
though that’s not in vogue.
I write more freely
after a shot or two of Irish whiskey.
A little buzz loosens me up
and I can always rewrite another time.
Every morning I brush my teeth,
take my pills, and then compose a limerick
about an event from the previous day.
My pre-coffee limericks
are quick and raggedy
but they remind me that poetry
is part of my daily existence
and that I have produced
something tangible that no one
has ever thought of before
(no matter how measly).
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