a thousand days impoverished

three years ago
i was a newly
published author
with no name
unemployed and
struggling to
keep the lights on
four days later
i started a new job
and three years later
i am an employed
no name author
struggling to
keep the lights on still
the cost of living
keeps climbing
yet the wage earned
from working all day
and writing all night
means groceries are
still no guarantee
the pandemic hit
threat of world war
a boat stuck in
the most traveled
shipping lane and
millions of people
unwilling to accept
wages they cannot
find a way to live upon
so many things have
happened along the
way that it feels as if
i went nowhere at all
in the span of
three years
thirty seven different
book appearances
fifty eight hundred
shitty new poems
and a bigger pit
with no hope of
digging back to
the surface ever again
coffee and wildflowers
three smiling faces
keep me attempting
to make something of
myself for them
whispering poetry to
the sparrows that
are enamored by odes
to never giving up
despite all the evidence
mounting up
that i possibly should
three years later
a thousand plus days
spent impoverished
grasping at dreams
as they dissipate
back into the aether

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