So, it would appear that I am a creative failure, as I have been unable to maintain my desired poem-a-day pace. But, as I am quite accustomed to failure, I can live with that. And, on this topic of not measuring up, here’s a poem fresh out of the oven of my dreams which seems to point to the discouragement of not quite fitting in with the poetry elite.
The Folly of all Human Understanding
It doesn’t work, said Billy Collins
tapping the doorbell,
that’s why I keep it cracked, he added
as he slowly closed the door on me
leaving it open just a crack.
And, as I stood there gasping for air,
hands on my knees, sweat dripping
from my nose and forehead, I heard him
say from the other side as he rejoined the party,
This is the folly of all human understanding.
Had I not just army-crawled up his insanely steep street
my forearms blistered from the hot asphalt, my fingertips
a bloody mess of meat and bone, I might not have been
so discouraged, might have tried to figure out for myself
what exactly was the folly of all human understanding.
Instead, I simply pushed open the door with my head
and walked inside, my torso now permanently bent at the hips,
a human framing square, and walked past all the wingtips
and the princess ankles in their high heels, until at last
I had been reunited with his penny-loafered feet.
Billy, I asked, what is the folly of all human understanding?
And as the feet of the others gathered around, we all waited
as he picked up the orange cat and, I can only guess,
began petting her, as she purrred and purrred,
Well, if I must explain, he began as my cat finally woke me.
