(Written when the poet had both a tent and a back yard to put it in —the back yard featuring trash, poop, flies, black widows and a copious population of rats, including the semi-psychotic sadist living in a trailer onsite — while looking forward to her present life reality)
*****
It seems I’ll live outside forever
In the wind and in the weather
So I guess it’s up to me
To find a way to grateful be
I could be without my tent
By any backyard fence unpent
With no way to a bathroom get
I guess I’m not at bottom yet
But at that bottom I have been
Terrified among the mean
Denizens loose on the street
Prey to anyone I meet
And I know how easily
Back there I could helpless be
So I stay outdoors to please
Help to keep domestic peace
Where the household lets me stay
Peacefully out of the way
Of the ordinary play
Of domestic fracas’ sway
Not for me ever again
Effortless rising warmly when
I joyful find myself awake
A simple cup of coffee make
(Just put a robe and burner on
For that prize to be quickly won)
Not for me mirrors, closets or
Leisure bath, dressing before
But every morning instant robe
To block the chill — a forlorn hope
Then after sunrise off they take
Throughout the afternoon to bake
Well, I am not a prison in
Free each morning to begin
This work of reaching out to they
Might benefit from words today
Yet those words now have ceased, I see,
To any inspiration be
But little help to any read
Such gloomy compositions heed
Merely a poetic blight
Which can no longer bring delight
I try to focus on the light
And fight this endless, hopeless fight
*****
The poet/editor of this website is physically disabled, and lives at a fraction of her nation’s poverty level. Contributions may be made at:https://www.gofundme.com/are-you-a-patron-of-the-arts
