A friendly editor who reads my verse
E-mailed: “your poems have struck a chord in me.”
Unsure, I wondered, was this praise or curse;
A B-flat minor chord, was that the key?
Good humored, he replied he found me “deft”
(Now there’s a word you don’t see ev’ry day).
Perhaps he meant my poetry had heft,
Was skillful in a sure and easy way.
At eighty-three, my body’s sore, not deft,
So physicality’s not what he meant
Despite my age I’m not yet brain bereft
Though memory is often dark or bent.
Perhaps perceptive, honest and candid,
He simply noticed that I’m right-handed.
(7/13/13)