The Peregrinations of the Penniless Poet
Often he thought on
the peregrinations of the penniless poet,
the pauper of writ lines,
of how he can perambulate
with no valid ticket, safety parachute,
the ever peril of fare fines.
Considered starving in a garret,
in some Paris shadowed slum street,
but alas, alack, no longer an option,
romantic no more, now stale, been done.
Besides, he liked clean socks on clean feet.
Yet the quest remained the same,
the pursuit of perfect form,
to be faithful to the true tale,
like Percival, Galahad,
continue the journey over the waste,
to pass on paths to paradise,
to achieve the Grail.
So he let the percussion of his fear drum,
percolate, softly, down to a bee hum,
still grew glum,
to ponder the power of the pendulum,
the patchy paucity of poem praise
that added up to no sum.
Peradventure, in decades,
even centuries that would come,
a verse of his in an anthology might appear,
in someone’s biography
something of him may be said.
Yes, there it was, a glimpse of fame eternal.
A clear tear made his eye shine, smart,
saw his name on a stone scroll etched,
among those who lived and died for art,
even if he were long and safely dead.