by Glen Martin Fitch
My friend,
if you mean save my mortal soul
before the pass/fail test
when I decay
for pre-paid bliss
or face the heated hole.
I'll run the risk--
I'm Sorry,
I won't play.
Or do you mean
I ought to hoard my goods to barter
in the market of the tough?
Or how I should survive
the world of shoulds?
Addictions say
there never is enough.
Or do you mean
I ought to bide my time,
as if I am a resource to conserve,
for all too soon
I will be past my prime?
I doubt if I am worthy
to preserve.
Do I need rescuing?
It's plain to see
that no one's saving me,
my friend, but me.
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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