owed to the poet

i imagine a skinny man
with high-watered pants sitting
in the grass beneath a tree

pencil to mouth thinking
looking, eyes squinted for inspiration
playing with words

changing, rephrasing, cleverly
being a Mary to nature's gifts
for our amusement's sake

while the rest of us toil as Martha
and labor for our pay
to purchase your attempt at understanding

like knowing no heart-ache or misery
and writing an empty shell
of a song about our blues

I salute you for your ability
to find a way to excuse
lack of profession for artistic ambivalence

how truly poetic