One of my unofficial duties at my job is writing poems (and I use the word loosely) for people who are retiring. Most of them I've never met. Someone will come to me and give me some details about the person and then I'll sit and rearrange words on a page until I have some light-hearted rhyming lines that I hope will honor the retiree.
I know I am not a poet. However, I recently discovered I didn't always know that. I was looking through some old files and found a few poems from 1993 that were written by someone who thought she was a real poet (ahem).
In a spirit of fun and self-mockery, I hereby present to you a truly sorry attempt at poetry. I look forward to your evil comments :-) (And let me say how much I admire those of you who can write a real poem.)
Gravy Train?
Running late
staccato sprint
to catch the uptown train
as token slides
in turnstile slot
sounds Doppler's sad refrain
lonely platform
but for a man
bending o'er black case
stuffing change in
blue-jean pockets
wool hat pulled low on face
a few bars more
may bring a bonus
yet he stares at me
guitar in hand
i'm not enough
he doesn't play for free
suddenly strumming
triads deep, while
fingers pluck notes high
a melted chocolate melody
soft thanks his
harmony line
the metallic clink
of dinner resounds
within his felt-lined case
soup du jour
prime rib au jus
on a table cloth of lace
approaching rumble then
deafening silence
still he sings in key
determination
a few more coins
buy pastry and some tea
homeward bound
yet back i glance
on half a song we're weaned
the gravy train
brings dreams of supper
then carts away his means
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