Long I’ve yearned for fame: To be interviewed
On TV pontificating for long
Hours about short poems. Instead life has booed
Rather than cheered. I’m always singing my song
Alone in the shower. Then I wondered
What fan I face when I sit facing a page
Of pure white. By mistake I then blundered
Into depth over my head, and, like a sage,
Walked into a painting facing just who
Painted it. Creation filled up with hints
of whom the Lonely Author might be. It’s true
Creation is merely the fingerprints
Of the Creator. Therefore it’s a shame
To miss His glance for a passing sketch, called fame.