Wednesday, May 31, 2017


                    While musing, I drift in a twilight zone—
                    I’m cocked back in my chair, pad on my lap,
                    As if I’m waiting for a cosmic phone
                    To ring and wake me from my hapless nap
                    With some inspiring message, setting me
                    Along a course in an iambic trot
                    Toward an undetermined destiny,
                    Such as my Muse may generously allot.

                    It’s clear by now, however, that this verse
                    Is not the one that I was hoping for
                    Because there’s hardly any poem that’s worse
                    Than one that talks about itself or
                    Wastes its reader’s time with folderol
                    Like this.  I clearly missed that cosmic call.