Someone was enumerating
my relative advantages,
tossing peanut shells on the pub floor.
Besides being comely/flirty/friendly
she was, mostly, right;
pointing out that a wealth
of possibilities awaited always,
almost eager, at my very fingers' tips.
And while I could sorta see it
I answered that I was more likely
bound to pawn my birthday Bulova
than make the nutty claim as
King to some handy infinitude.
More poignantly,
I put it to her
that I often answer,
flinching, slave-like,
to the five-tined prod
of nickel and dime desires,
and find myself sadly slightly,
if at all, graced by goodness
for it's own sublime sake.
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