Fine day
I wonder if one fine day, they’ll gather all my scattered poems
and combine them, index and catalogue them.
I wonder if one fine day, they’ll look at this sheet of drawing paper,
which I’m filling with my thoughts in a bathroom in the middle of the night,
and look at it as if it were some kind of treasure to preserve and admire,
since it’s from the hand of one of history’s greatest minds: me.
But around five percent, of all people in this country are now working on a book
and in a day and age where everybody and their cat fancy themselves poets
I, the stubborn rational pragmatist that I am, have to admit
the odds of finding fame, even posthumously, are stacked against me badly.
In truth, I don’t even know if you can call this collection of random musings a poem,
as it contains little in terms of meter, rhyme or style,
but I still hope that one fine day, you will read this
and think: this adds something to the world, this deserves to be.
If I can achieve that, this day will have been a fine day for me,
even if all I’ve been getting lately has been bad news,
because I end it with hope for the future and a BIC round stic pen.
And that is a very pleasant pen.
Have a fine day.