by Roland Flint

Any day’s writing may be the last,
He’s reminded at 2 in the morning,
Making this year’s last Italian
Notes, before readying his machine
And self to get aboard the bigger
Machine and fly, Dio Volente, home.
And so he repeats the Our Father
He said to himself before rising.
And feels a heartfelt thanks, Lord,
For such poems as have come his way,
Whether or not they get read, and,
It goes without saying, few may.
And thanks as well for eagerness,
Almost daily, to greet the drone
With words, bequeathed in part
By what poets before have done:
He prays to be among them, one,
However small. The work is all.

Last updated April 09, 2011