Everyone except my wife

I think I’m probably addicted I keep staring at the screen Rereading last weeks poems So brilliant they seem!

“We are the poems that we read” That’s what someone said Then someone else called me a poet It’s getting to my head.

“My God, I’m getting good at this, Listen to this line! It’s like the writer knows me! I’ve read it thirty times!”

Everyone except my wife Compliments my work If she ever enjoyed my poetry I’d think she’d gone berserk.

But usually she’s rather kind Unintentionally She never bothers reading them Nor replies to me.

So off they go to all my friends And kindly strangers clap The notification bell goes green And I give myself a pat.

“Poets and artists are all starving You can’t pay bills with rhymes!” It’s OK, shut-up, I have a job I think I’m doing fine.

I just read that and she’s smiling! But only fleetingly “Well at least it isn’t about death” And she’s laying into me.

“Let me read it to you” “Oh god you’ve written more?” “But you’ve inspired me to keep writing It’s better than before.”

I should keep it to myself But I just have to try Maybe she’ll like my work Just once before I die.