Ode to Me

When I was small
I wanted to be Toulouse-Lautrec
When I grew up
But I was too tall
And couldn't draw whores
Anyway.
There were no Moulin Rouges
in Ohio
And absinthe was illegal.
I had paper, I had pens.
I was ready but
Like so many things
It just didn't work out.
I became Jackson Pollock instead,
A bloated, alcoholic
Paint flinger.
It worked out fine until
I had to quit drinking and
The paint dried up.
It took me fifty years to be
OK with that
And I can see now that I'd
Rather be me than
de Kooning or Rothko even.
It's much easier
than being a geius.

"Banish all your fond alarms."