A Diplomat of the Precariat

Ristras of poems cluster my porch.
I am a person when I write
Poetry; the rest of the time

I’m a poet. I used to leave
Them spread out in colorful sheets
On the ground or the roof to dry,

But the mice and the bugs spoiled them,
So I learned to hang strings of them,
And I pretend they protect me.

But I worry. I can never
Seem to keep a house, neither in
Good order nor my possession,

And every hour I waste hanging
More poems that look pretty to me,
More poems than anyone could eat,

Is an hour I had better spent
Budgeting, looking for more work,
More teaching, more freelancing, more

Document-writing, form-filling
Usefulness. But please forgive me.
I’m rambling. You invited me

To serve as representative,
Which I’m not. I’m but a sample
Of the diplomat you search for—

The whole diplomat will arrive
Shortly. Did you notice the storm?
I noticed the winds were blowing.