If you can write a sonnet after hours
of driving, carting wife and family
to Florida, sir, I salute your powers.
You are a more resilient scribe than me.
If then that poem, scribbled with your eyes
all bleared and bloodshot, should be worth a damn,
your gift is rarer than you realize.
You're many times the sonneteer I am.
But if you rack your brain and only find
cobwebs and road signs clogging up your thought,
the dream of rest enveloping your mind
and robbing you of what small skill you've got,
And yet you try to do it, faithfully--
I've solved your riddle, charlatan: you're me.
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