The Hackneyed Poet

 

If I'm to tell a story
If it's  a tale you've come to hear
Then follow me, my feathered friend
For the beginnings way back here.

Twas a time before the grammar police
Would stop a speeding verb
When a sprinkling of commas
Wasn’t rare or that absurd

I'd love to weave a mystery
Leaving clues behind the salt
But never in the kitchen
Or locked up in a vault

No bumps beneath the carpet
No cover-ups for me
If I'm to be a writer
I'll need a place beside the sea

A loft with such a window
The view would hardly fit
I'd write villains in the shadows
all the drunks would be well lit

It would be in the first person
Though not the first upon the scene
Or perhaps it's  no who-done-it
but an adventure more serene

A quiet retrospective
Informative and lite
Though I couldn't do a travel log
I'm tucked at home each night


So maybe it’s a writer
I'm not supposed to be
but just a hackneyed poet
Left to stare out at the sea.

Zobostic Corwin