What If My Ilk Doesn’t Like Me?
I brimmed with utter confidence.
I’d be as smooth as silk.
I’d sparkle at the open mic,
and mingle with my ilk.
But then a creepy thought crept near.
It slunk into my head.
An ominous and looming fear
that filled my mind with dread:
“What if my ilk doesn’t like me?
What if no poet responds?
What if the mob tries to strike me
with eggs and tomatoes and yawns?
“What if the crowd pitches insults
or if they inflict icy stares?
What if they hint I go elsewhere
to peddle my lyrical wares?”
I shared my doubts and inner strife
with my devoted bride.
It heartens me to have a wife
in whom I can confide.
She said, “So what if poems bomb
or if your shtick affronts?
A coward dies a thousand deaths.
A poet dies but once.
“Fend off your doubts! Ignore your fears!
Go be a troubadour!
Your tendency to bore your peers
has not stopped you before.”