this morning as with others

I’m “bumming”.

it’s a term used by youngsters

to describe a feeling of inadequacy.

I’ve been looking through photos

containing my image.

some are new (or dare I say: newish) others are old,

as in when I was young and pretty.

I can’t find one from the here and now which could

be displayed alongside my poems to my satisfaction

when I’m long gone and history has wrapped

its weathered hand around my neck.

other poets seem to look like poets, although they've been

pre-sighted and forever associated with their poems.

so that's that.

here's an E.E.Cummings offering:

                                  “Thy fingers make early flowers of

                                    all things.

                                    thy hair mostly the hours love:

                                    a smoothness which

                                    sings, saying

                                   (though love be a day)

                                    do not fear, we will go amaying"...

and being poet enough to tinker with that old,

cantankerous International Harvester yonder.––  I’m

“bumming”.