THE PENANCE OF EIGHT

This next poem speaks for itself. It deals with the agony and ecstasy of being a full-time artist.

THE PENANCE OF EIGHT

I sometimes wonder if
dripping words across an empty canvas
like a painter with a palette of punctuation,
or a sculptor shaping torsos with synonyms
is really what I’m supposed to be doing.

Perhaps I’d be better suited sitting in an office
working with a mimeograph
and laughing about dipping Dow averages
as I bite into a jelly donut,
my third for the day.

Certainly my wallet would thank me,
and so would my stomach,
for one can’t live off poetry alone,
and rustic living soon loses its romanticism
once the white coat of winter falls from the rack.

But then why am I out here, sitting by the pond,
watching the speckled swan swim circles in the water,
and the gray-haired grandpa feed popcorn to the pidgins,
while I scribble sad nothings into a notebook of nocturnes,
and brush perfumed petals off the lapels of my coat?

Who knows? Perhaps I like to punish myself.

Or perhaps I’m incapable of paying the penance of eight,
that unpalatable price of prosperity.