I fancy myself a poet…

but grudgingly admit

to being a lousy magician

 

since illusory images

slip from my grasp

as if three in one oil

coats my fantasy.

 

But there’s solace

in being a good parent.

 

Ignoring my kids’ faults,

I tuck in tired old lines

like beautiful babies

 

that I’m proud of,

even though

they make me yawn

 

masquerading

as the cute kids

they’re not.

 

I oddly don’t notice

that they’ve turned green

with jealousy of their cousins,

 

who wear finely

knit gossamer cloth

and shriek with joy

 

as they run amok with

the images that I seek.

​

My poems get as far as they can

from what I’m trying to do

no matter how hard I try.

 

Rabid with desperation

I try a new strategy.

I moonlight

as a surgeon.

 

Verses that once beamed with vibrancy

fall beneath my cold blue blade

and feel like

they’ve had a lobotomy.

 

What I was trying to say

is a Grand Canyon away.

 

So, I go for a walk

to clear my mind

 

and see a dark effigy

pushing a shopping cart

 

who pulls me in

with his sullen sadness

and pleading eyes.

 

His desperation

puts mine in its place

 

and shakes my pen

back to life.