Money

I sent my poems out to make money.
Begrimed they came home after happy hour.

Most of what they earned they drank.
Tall pints of Guinness with shamrocks twirled in foam.

Since they were not drunk
I figured they were not good providers.

Many of them worked
for server minimum wage plus tips.

My poems were most comfortable in coffee shops.
The best tippers do not practice that skill in coffee shops.

My miscalculation was the value of my poems.
I thought they were at least thirty dollar an hour poems.

I thought they were a hundred K salary plus benefits poems.
I thought they were lucrative stock option poems.

I placed the handful of coins my poems brought home
in a green glass mason jar.

If I dumped the coins in a tumbler
they would not measure a single finger.

My poems were not ashamed
about their lack of earning power and tech skills.

My poems knew their value
like Vincent van Gogh knew his paintings’ value.

copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney

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