You didn’t want to
write this poem.
You had hoped for
far better than
this, once upon a time.
Twice,
even. Or more – perhaps
four or five or six or
seven times you had
figured you’d do better
than this.
And on the times when
you knew you weren’t
going to do better than
this you considered
it all grist for the mill.
The grist never ends,
is seldom worth anything, doesn’t
get put to use, but there
you are forever at
the mill.