I start this, not knowing where it might go,
as only patient time can surely know.
It all starts upstairs, in wanting to show
in words, as best i can, the ghostly flow
of steam rising up from outside, below
me, vented from next door's open window
(and how its spectral, evanescent glow
makes the morning's light shine, eerily so,
on the glowering backdrop of the clouds, low
and looming overhead; how each billow
roiling past the frosted glass seems to blow
like cotton wool, or swiftly coiling snow
in drifting waves, fleecy-soft); it is, though,
disconcerting to say the least: the slow-
blooming notion dawns, then rushes to grow
to preponderous size (with teeth that gnaw
to the bone), that it's too awkward to draw
with any skill; i could, at best, bestow
it with raw meaning, but in embryo,
a slapdash, amateurish, vague tableau
rough-hewn - doggerel scrawled by a tyro.
(Witness above: as subtle as Velcro.)
That's the upshot of this imbroglio -
to reveal, in flagrante delicto,
the folly that follows, that is my flaw
(like shooting an arrow without a bow) -
my mean, my average, my status quo,
the understanding that i am shallow
(and all such odium as should follow);
how such a simple picture goes to show
that poetry can be like rodeo -
words are broncos, will the unwitting throw;
it's so simple, it's practically a law,
axiomatic, an easy K.O.
Like they say, you can't fight the undertow.
I know this: i was, and remain, in awe
of those who can. Alas, i can't. Heigh-ho!

MP 22824