My impatience
robs me of my observance,
but sharpens my pen.
I slice my ego
into quivering hunks of
silvery fatback,
sputtering in the
skillet I heat with my heart.
Shame fits me too well.
I am only as good as
my efforts allow.
Some days I work hard.
Some days I don’t work at all.
Bless the days I work.
If a poem comes
I have received a gift
given at my birth.