You Call Yourself a Writer

Your hands are shaking
as you button your collar
lift your chin to the wind.
You blow away the smoke
and flick away the butt
remembering a life
before you were broke.
The life you lead
wouldn’t comfort
the child you once were.

Horses, wagons, popping guns
baseball bats and bubble gum,
loitering away days
without much thought
of what you would become.

Then came days with promise
that you would become productive
and that compensation would be enough
to base a family on
And your rejection of that promise.

Boiled cabbage and canned tuna,
dry toast and a pot of coffee,
while speeding your fingers
over an inward gaze,
imprinting your look
on your cell phone text.

You must label yourself
so you call yourself a writer.

Copyright 2017 RJHoffman, Roaming Snyder Publishing.

Roaming Snyder Art/Music/Poetry

by Ronald J. Hoffman

Your hands are shaking
as you button your collar tight.
You lift your chin to the wind
to blow away the smoke.
You flick your butt into the
creek imagining what things
were like before you were broke.

The life you lead would be
no comfort to the person
you were when you were
younger, back then no
beckoning could ever bring
you to who you are right now.
Horses, wagons and popping
guns, baseball bats and bubble
gum, loitering away days
without much thought of
what you would become.

Now, Boiled cabbage and
canned tuna, dry toast
and a pot of black coffee
speed your fingers over
your inward gaze,
imprinting your look
on your cell phone text.

You must label yourself so
you call yourself a writer.

 

Copyright 2017 Ronald J. Hoffman, Roaming Snyder Publishing.

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