We become observers,
writers.
Apparently,
By dint of our juxtaposition to
Impecunity.
Not by God,
Nor by Christ,
Nor by Satan,
Nor by any means currently fashionable
Can a writer gain sustenance
As a writer.
He/She/They/must haunt the
Mailbox
for
Welfare cheques
(Social Assistance, now, like that makes it easier to cash)
That imply we are not good enough to
Hold on to the castoff jobs we get
for
Unemployment cheques
The aftermath of jobs always unsuitable
Always demeaning
In the first place
for
Artistic grants dangled
just out of reach
(Oh, I know you're
a writer,
But whose heard of you?
I mean, really? I can't give just every writer a grant.
Now can I? I mean, really?)
Because we shouldn't
take up the country's time with
Our posturing efforts to impress.
Writers, indeed!
Try that in another country,
Smiley Jim/Jill.
Transpose the Unemployment/Social
Assistance/Grant
thing
It won't really matter
It rarely ever does
So, we find ourselves
in a fine position to watch
Those events that do unfold ~
Unfold around us,
Over the rumblings of
Our empty bellies, and
Without hindrance of participation
On our parts.
This it is that allows us to spot the leaf
Whose green, in deepest scrutiny
Is greenest.
The cloud whose billow is most pillowy
Among the down of the heavens.
Hear that sound which is most grating
That, even when stopped,
Scours the ear of Harmony.
Or that silvery sound that
Haunts the ear always with
Sylvan splendor and Elfin delight.
To watch that chance
given, of success,
To someone else
And be content in the knowledge that
Even had that chance been given to
me, you, us
It would not fit.
Writers must contend
with the
Horribly unfair,
And eternally painful fact,
That silk suits can always be draped
Around a favorite
Monkey.
Whereas, writers are a notoriously
Bad fit.
But, what keen insight!
