When I grow up, I’ll be a responsible essayist.
I’ll solve the world’s problems, one by one.
Then I’ll invent new ones. I’ll also sell subscriptions.
Until then, I’ll be an irresponsible poet and doodler.
I’ll be a dooet and poetler. I’ll also sell inflictions.
When everyone’s well, I’ll say they’re ill.
And when they’re ill, I’ll say I welled them.
I’ll have blog security. I’ll be avoided from miles around.
Told to mind my own business. Shut up in prison.
Given posthumous awards.
In other words, I’ll have a lot to write about.
Readers, if there are any left, will say I’m a master of the long form.
No more counting syllables. No more haiku. Rhyme will be taboo.
Ghosts will say boo. Owls will say hoo. Yes, that’s what I’ll do.
Be a responsible essayist. And yet I wonder. Is that what I really want?
How could it be? Won’t I still be me? A piddler in the real world?
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Categories: Sour Honey
Tags: Essays, Ghosts, Haiku, Identity, Inflictions, Owls, Poets, Problems, Responsibility, Rhyme, Syllables, Words, Writing
William Michaelian 