I always thought I’d write a book or four.
Of course they’d be the type I like to read,
with characters I care about, and sure
development of plots at proper speed.
I figured it a matter of mere time –
some practice and experience would serve
to hoist me from the world of metered rhyme.
I thought I had the talent and the nerve.

But at the keyboard, when I crafted prose,
the pace of narrative was tiresome.
I found I lacked the patience to compose.
The stories and the speech require some
commitment I resent. I’m never stirred,
till I revert to loving every word.