here’s our indoor pool, i
mostly use it for my back —
i make a lot of money here
as chief poetic hack

it’s hard, between eight-liners,
finding time stay in shape;
a mountain home is easier
or one out on the cape —

the butler and the maid both left,
the towels aren’t on the shelf:
i’ll have to walk inside and get
a beach towel for myself

at least the wine is chilled;
the stilton cheese, right where it should –
although i’m inconvenienced, i guess
life
is pretty
good

a blog’s supposed to tell the truth
and show us as we really are;
and here i’ve spent a silly night
on stuff that isn’t real.

but there is truth in fantasy;
like love admired from afar:
so lying, sometimes, can be right
at least, that’s how i feel

okay, now, no more kidding;
this is where i really live.
you people read my stuff a lot:
the least that i can give

you is a fair account about
my life among the peers;
i am an irish ghost and i’ve
lived here a thousand years

you maybe wouldn’t like it, but
i say ‘to each his own’
what one man calls a basket
someone else may call
a throne

my last post might have overstated
how our house appears;
i’m showing you a picture to
alleviate your fears

that i’m an evil rich man
with the stink of corporate taint;
i live here in this hovel,
which i think makes me a saint

yes, i’m a poor rice farmer,
and my needs are very few;
just grain to feed the oxen
and a few more ‘likes’
will do