Mother always said
I could find poetry
in a manhole cover.

She invariably sneered
at my creative side
insisting it’d make me

no decent money
that it was an
improper profession

for any red-blooded male.
She was correct about
the pecuniary advantages.

Nevertheless I have felt
the compulsion to write.
Some indefinable urge

propels me. Maybe it is
Mother’s apparition
stood pouting glowering

waving a skinny digit
whispering that I should
never amount to much.

Author: Robert James Berry

Poet & Novelist