Thirty-eight must now make hay from beauty, Having lost his love for lack of
cents. In professing a profession that pays
well, Rejuvenating what he has to sell, The artist weighs ideals against
expense, Yearning for his bit of labor's
booty.
Even as
he redefines his duty Intent on an intention less intense, Grappling with his heart, he cannot
tell How much his art was an excuse to
fail, There being need no longer for
pretense.
Copyright by Nicholas Gordon. Free for personal or non-commercial use.