I yearned for movie stardom as a child,
convinced I had some talent (which I lacked).
My Virgin Mary choked and was reviled.
No, I can’t act.
I spent six years in choir at the church --
my hymns would make the stained glass windows ring.
The tune would knock a parrot off his perch.
No, I can’t sing.
My ballet lessons were no less a mess.
The teacher mimed despair while I would prance
around the room, a hippo in a dress.
No, I can’t dance.
You see now: poetry’s my final chance.
I have to hope that when I perish it’ll
be carved in stone, ‘Can’t act, can’t sing, can’t dance.
Rhymes a little.’