I
came too late to this noble calling:
too
many distractions, I was careless,
unfocused.
Excommunicated, no less,
from
my purpose by papal parenting;
guidance-counseling-denigrated
thinking.
Was
my self-made opportunity worth less
when
accomplished within that loveless
embryonic
envelope of aging?
Time
rules, deadlines come and go, but the gall!
I
empathize as I pass seventy,
but
I cannot resist turning the screw:
thinking
of forms and structure, I recall
Bukowski's
lament that God made plenty
of
poets but little poetry. Who knew?
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