This week’s poem is just a draft, I’m afraid. Ought I to work it into a final form, or let it fall by the wayside, Gentle Reader? You decide.
A DraftAnother indignity darkens my door Degraded again and again – I never felt lucky until I was poor: I never quite lived until then.
But these machinations are taking their tollI wonder what might have become of my soul My options grow slimmer while I’m growing old It seems human value is measured in gold.