More Than A Poet

It is too early to spin a poem.Too early to know whether it is good or bad.Too early to care.It's here, I suppose,That I wish I were something moreThan a poet.Something useful or brave.Something efficient perhaps,Or strong and powerful.Like one of thoseThat stand at the helm of industry.Dear God - save me from that!But then at least, I could pretend that I was wanted.Then I would stand with my head erectAnd beguile myself into believingThat I am respectedFor something more thanWhat they use me for.Then, I would feign that my friends Were friends forever.And pretend that they loved meFor something more than my success.We'd roam the golf coursesDiscussing things of no import.My home and office would be full Of well wishersAnd I'd spend my moneyOn useless giftsKnowing all the whileThat they'd ruin them in the end.But we'd play the bluff.And have a great time of itWhile it lasted.One thing for sure,I would not sit at five thirty in the morningWondering at the silence,Letting it move upon and around meLike dark nativesDeciding the fate of their captive.I wouldn't spend my daysStaring out upon an unseen world That looms like fairy goblinsAnd fretting all the whileOver thoseWho don't believe in such things.But I suppose That a man must be something.And in the absence of all thatWhich I might have made of myself,Had I been strong or efficient or useful,That I'd might as well say what can be saidWhile it can be said,Be it good or bad.And content myselfWith the approval of the fairy folk.Would to God That they would let meGet to my breakfast!