*****
Perhaps there be a bitter chill
In the morning when I rise
So far it hasn’t made me ill
To my consid’rable surprise
Perhaps I wear nine layers
At the waist, three on my head
If that could kill me, I am sure
I’d already be dead
Perhaps the air beside this road
Smells like a factory —
When I at China’s pictures look
I know much worse there be
The unremitting sound of
Trains and traffic so nearby
Reduced is to white neutral noise
Local acoustics by
Perhaps I am alone
A trifle more than might be nice
But that, for a creative soul,
Is oft the going price
And certain ’tis that I prefer
My own good company
To an excess of aggravated
Mediocrity
Perhaps there’s here no easy place
To rest an aching back —
But none of that matters to me
For I have what before I lacked,
And have lacked, all throughout
Such a frustrated fifty years,
I must have spent full twenty of them
Functioning through tears
A small device held in one hand
Now allows me to
Free my imprisoned poetry
And send it out to you
I had the choice to warmer be
A short time ago
Only needed let creative
Concentration go
This was the path I chose for
Poetry, the price I pay
Willing for aught duration
Right where I am to stay
*****
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
