Nine months have passed since my last poem:
I think I am past due.
I've read my favorite poets' tomes
and quickly come unglued.
By my age they had many a child
Of whom they could be proud.
My labor pains will drive me wild
If this thing don't come out.
Get water boiled: I need some tea
To give me inspiration.
And prunes! The greats have given me
Literary constipation.
Lamaze, Leboyer, each assist
And teach me how to breathe.
Now get Doc Rilke and I wist
I'll earn my laurel wreath.
Not forceps, nurse. Get pen and pad
To catch the drops of rhyme.
And learn from the lesson that I've had:
Don't whine before your time!
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