The real poet
“I have miles to go…” David Frost.
Thinking of his beautiful poems as I walked
the corridors of the parking place
at the bottom of the building.
No, I’m not David Frost my life is too mundane
to fly on poetic wings.
Around and around five times makes one hour
all I get is smells of parked cars.
Still, as I walk, I think of poetry others have written
Not my own they are too practical
They sound like carpentry, and nails hammered into a plank
building a cabin on a mountainside.
That is the way it goes, and some are blessed
the rest of us are poetic cobblers.