Reflecting on the poverty of a writer’s life, a much heralded but little understood reality.

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
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?

Poetry Collection: The Smell of Tweed and Tobacco
This poem is included in
Jim Freeman’s
poetry collection


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