Once an endurance athlete, and now a
bowl full of jelly,
I hardly gave a thought to work; now I
work in front of the telly.
Between my fur and my taste for cold, I
was once a polar bear.
Did I migrate? Yes, and south at that.
To a tropical island, that's where.
Mine was once the almost-famous name of
a blazing ace of test-taking,
and lately I've found myself unable to
memorize a thing.
(In my mind, ideas are illegal
immigrants—that's how head-blows affect a poet.)
At some times, under some, I was a
patriot; now, I'm nearly twice an expatriate.
Some years ago, I worked with passion,
on fire for teaching
Now I spend half my week just waiting
for the weekend,
Longing for time to write, and the time
I wrote, and the quiet.
From would-be novelist to erstwhile
storywriter to dormant poet,
and now neither prolific in the first
nor productive in the other,
I've become a motorcyclist, though that
one only shocks my mother.
