Word

Had I been a collegiate football star when I

was a young man, I would likely be dead by

now. Same thing had I chosen a career as a

hot rod drag car racer. I would have met my

end in a firey heap of twisted metal. I was

never inclined to peruse the sciences as my

proclivity for math was severely deficient.

Law, civil and biblical, although I’ve tried

my best to abide such legislative and litur-

gical decrees, turned out to be too wishy

washy for the defiant atheist I turned out

to be. Crocheting required too much repeat,

repeat, line after line the same. So, what

then was left for me on the menu of life’s

work from which to choose? I know, give

me a brush a canvas and some paint. I’ll

buy me a spiral notebook and a pen. I’ll

tap some far-fetched envisioning running

through my head, and I’ll become an artist

and poet. My parents warned me, that’s

fine for a hobby, son, but you’ll need to make

money doing something you hate in order to

survive. And you know, turns out they were

right. Tried both ways in my day. Now, here

I sit in my seventy-second year, a midst my

artworks, writing poetry and being paid a

monthly pittance by Social Security. And

damn it all, I’m just fine! Both my parents

have long since passed away. See where their

work ethics eventually got them. And, as far

as heaven and hell are concerned, I haven’t

heard a bloody word from anyone.

                              -30-

Chris Hanch 1-5-2020