I came too late to this noble calling:
too many distractions, I was careless,
unfocused. Excommunicated, no less,
from my purpose by papal parenting;
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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