April 21, 2026Poem
I don’t know
identitymortality
I don’t know
The way of things
Not many do
Some people pretend to
Shouting the odds
Demanding to be heard
To be followed
Worshipped
As demigods.
Few of them
Are noteworthy
None of them stack up
As bright sparks.
I met a beggar
Who called it right
Sharp as a tack
A genius
You might say
When he kept it all
To himself
Rather than
Give it away.
He shunned the limelight
Ignored the pundits
Drank from the bottle
For the burn
The peel of the bell
The roll of the dice.
He was a penitent
Gave his condolences
To the sincere
Forbearance
To the zealot
Contrition is a virtue
To be valued
He said
Even from the gutter,
An observation
Hard to deny.