A Poem Comes

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.


About Jim Stewart

Writer at Butt in Chair
This entry was posted in Absolutes, Art, birth, Humans, Man, Poem, Poetry, Uncategorized, Universe, Work and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

1 Response to A Poem Comes

  1. Bud Hedrick says:

    Smart Fellow! Asks for nothing, demands even less!

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