by Glen Martin Fitch
Strange, super-human powers
I possess.
I know what's hidden, where,
and I can guess your history
from your breath,
and what things weigh.
My ears can hear a rip
from rooms away.
I know what's in your ‘fridge,
your cart, your bag.
What's missing from a shelf,
what's on a rag.
Pie diagrams
my inner eye divides.
I never asked for this.
Besides I'm powerless.
I fret to see folks frown.
Observed alone,
a guest, or on the town
they think me rude.
"What nerve!"
"What gall!"
They watch me stare
and drool and scheme
at all that's gulped or
sucked or licked or bit and chewed
I pray then:
"Thank you, God,
that's not my food."
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ABOUT THE POET ~
Glen Fitch is a 16th Century poet lost in the 21st Century. Born near Niagara Falls, educated in the Catskills, thirty years on the Monterey Bay he now lives in Palm Springs. Retail not academics has paid the bills. Someday he will finish Spenser's "The Fairie Queene."
Last updated August 23, 2011