Poetic Reflections: thirteen

So here I am, having been struck over the head by Inspiration (as well as encouraged by a fellow author and friend named Lynn Tolson), which suddenly compelled me to compile a volume of my verse entitled Poetic Reflections: Keep The Heart Of A Child. It’s the thirteenth month and I find my brain waxing astutely — well, maybe it’s more “ergutely” but I can’t seem to find it in the dictionary; not that it’s ever stopped me from using a word so all right then, ergutely it is — about everything and nothing, and anything too, but least of all something in particular.

More precisely, it’s the bottom of the month of May. It’s now or never. If I’m going to do this, if I can ever do this again, it has to be now. Which makes it all the more difficult to do, I find. Has that ever happened to you?

This being my thirteenth poetry column, I would love to make it spectacular. Really offbeatenly outlandishly extra-ordinary, even for me.

No, that doesn’t sound quite fantastic enough. This has to be huge. Monumentally stupendously extreme. It is the thirteenth. My lucky number. (At least I think it is. Hard to tell when I have so little luck to compare with my vast amount of no luck.)

As I was saying before I interrupted, being the thirteenth makes this column exceptionally special. I need to live up to that magnitude. Hence, how shall I commemorate its grandeur? I know, I’ll write a poem. But not just any poem; a poem called “Thirteen”! Or, my devilish second thoughts suggest, should I write thirteen poems? Hmm . . . glancing at my watch . . . oops, forgot, I don’t have a watch . . . squinting at the clock . . . that might take too long. The month could end and my thirteenth column would be late. I only have three days left. Let’s see, if I pen four poems and a third per day, carry the tenth, subtract a two, divide by five, I’ll end up with . . . I don’t know, you figure it out! I was never very good at math.

Why don’t I just round it off and write three? That’s a nice even number. What? I know it’s odd. For me, odd is perfectly even!

Where was I? Ah, three poems. Instead of thirteen. I don’t know. Maybe I should write thirteen. It is called “Thirteen” after all. It would make more sense than three. Not that I’m concerned about making sense, of course. That’s usually the least of my concerns.

Am I capable of writing thirteen poems? I’m not sure. I’ve never tried. Maybe I am. But what if I’m not??? What if I can’t? What if I fail miserably, crashing and burning the figurative page?

I guess I won’t know until I do try. Great, now I’ve talked myself into it. Why did I do that? Tell me why?

(You don’t really have to tell me. It was rhetorical. But if you have an answer, please donate it to some poor person who could use one.)