I Get Sad

I get sad when I look at the shelf

with my collection of journals, now numbering seventeen,

a set of books I’ve filled with ramblings about myself,

from 2001 all the way to 2014,

and think that no one will read it.

Not in its entirety, anyway. Even I 

won’t read it.  It’s too long.  Oh, perhaps a misfit

grandson may sneak away with my ramblings while

his cousins play outside, but he’ll only skim,

skipping from scene to scene, looking for sex,

but when I sit in the pew with Steve Elliot, or Kim,

or you, or you, or you, and sing, we break the hex

of isolation, of irrelevance, of obscurity, and we're happy.  

All we have to do is sing “Upon the Cross of Calvary,"

once to expose the absurdity, the outright lie, that the

author is the of sole owner of any intellectual property.

The way I sing it, that song is my song too.

This hymnbook is the best work I can offer to you.