A Place to Say It

Just a place to say it

Where others sit and hear

And judge

Your whatever it is.

And maybe it's Shaman-medicine magic

And maybe it's Jack's-typing-type writing

And maybe it's not even that good

But here's a place to say it

And have it read in Banf and Bali.

Whew.

How many Joni Mitchells

Lived tied to a stake on a Manitoba farm

And wrote Shaman-magic things

On dear, expensive paper

That not a soul would read

Except a father who

Wondered what this nonsense was

And a maiden aunt who got it

But out of jealousy said nothing?

And I think of my dad

Typing through the winter days

A first draft

And then, crossing out lines

Inserted a few new words

Only to type type again

On a typewriter that had lost its "E" key

And had only a sharp metal thingy to push on.

Do you know how lucky you are

That you can write whatever

And have 316 people,

One in Guam,

Another in Nigeria,

Tell you how great you are

When not that many read even one of his five books?