I Could Have Been A Contender
I should be building houses and saving frightened animals.
I should be walking on the moon or captaining a submarine.
Instead, I’ve an ear cocked in the dark, straining at the stool of poetry,
worshipping the minutes as the hours tip-toe past on the way to the lav.
There are only so many days to waste, so many years on the calendar,
and here I am pushing words around, a somewhat literate bully.
Morpheus snickers while Venus strokes my purple fur.
The dark lasts longer every morning and I’m dancing with the dog.
A full moon last night, casting its moony-eyed spell,
planets zigzagging, stars gone off in their merry manner,
and I’m lying here like the prince of poetry and punning.
A world on fire and floodwaters rising round our necks
and I’m trying to say something that will make any difference.
Every day is a new start, so instead why not a career in evil?
Why not run for political office or overcome a fear of flying?
At my age now, and every year is a stone in my mouth.
Every morning is a challenge I’m too bullheaded to disavow.
Disappointed with myself and others, I can barely find the words.
It’s all I can do to finish this sentence.