The Long Haul

"You'll never amount to anything!"
That phrase has a lasting vindictive sting,
And the kids in school who uttered it—
Whether they sneered or stuttered it—
May have been prescient in their way.
Since then, I've tried to prove them wrong,
The ghosts of children who shrilled that song;
I've tried to please the faddish masses
Of poet-tasters and assorted asses—
How I've punched and remolded my clay!
I ask you, reader, the important queries,
The first and foremost in a series:
Which of my keys fits your mental lock?
What brassy rattles surpass mere talk?
How should I mow and bale my hay?
But all I hear back are empty echoes
That startle the spiders and scatter the geckos,
That set me off picking that eternal scab,
For "bard" is an anagram of "drab,"
And a pot of all colors blends into gray.
Back to the drawing board I limp—
For the thousandth time I play the wimp,
And meekly submit to the thankless grind,
Assembling what slivers of words I find,
Awaiting the light from a neverdawn day.

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The Long Haul