My money is a house
in which I live
comfortably enough—
it's snug (cramped!)
and airy (it leaks, and
I don't know where!)
My job is a lover who's
thankless and demanding,
who takes
the best hours of my days,
is jealous
of my smallest infidelity,
and at the end
may throw me a little change.
My mind is a cave, with
many winding passages,
no two alike,
but all the same
after the candle falters.
My pen is a claw,
hooked in the rug
of my forgetfulness
and age—
—11/5/2007
©2007, 2008 Alan P. Scott. All rights reserved.
Last updated February 7, 2008
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