Reflecting on the poverty of a writer's life, a much heralded but little understood reality. |
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Who Will Save Me Now?The money’s gone,so who will save me now? and why am I unable to save myself It’s a matter of chagrin, this dependence, this needing somehow to pay the rent and meaningless as hell that other writers more skilled than I down through decades, begged their way ahead of me I’ve got to get another plan, because the money’s gone and who will save me now? Plans get in the way of words but the rent comes due inevitably and food and cigarettes are both habitual Demeaned, I know I live too well Should be washing dishes like Orwell and I’m not Is it too big a price, the one they paid? |
 This poem is included in Jim Freeman's poetry collection THE SMELL OF TWEED AND TOBACCO available here in print or as an e-Book in your favorite formats. |
