A Poet’s Paycheck


Some hold their feelings in,
although there’s more room on the out —
and therein lies a clue
to what a writer’s all about.

As, tenderly, the lines are penned
and polished, poems soar.
We needn’t wonder at the time,
“Who am I writing for?”

When bits of me fall on a page,
preserved in rhythmic order,
it serves as extra storage
for a heart that’s spilled its border.

And whether what I write
is ever publicized or quoted,
it tells of who I am …
or who I was the day I wrote it.

But, in the end, the record
isn’t ever quite complete
until someone who loves me
has acknowledged its receipt.


cc-by-nc-ndMary Boren,  1996

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