loyd.net

Silver and gold have I none. . .
Oh, that's not true.
I am not in poverty—
Merely in debt.

Anyway,
I don't have a lot of money
To buy you some extravagant present.
I wish I could be extravagant and generous,
Bestowing rich presents on my friends.
I wish I could take us all on fabulous vacations,
I wish I simply could visit more often.
I wish a lot of things. . .

Where was I?
Ah, yes, I can't afford to buy you much.
I'm sure you understand,
You're not wealthy, either.
Though I suppose there have been times
When I have spent regardless,
That's why I'm in debt, I suppose.
Too, there have been times
When I've given you some present,
Usually nothing much,
But if I found something you might like,
If it didn't cost too much,
If there was an appropriate occasion. . .
Perhaps I've even been a bit extravagant
Once or twice.

(To be honest
You probably don't know,
Don't want to know,
How much money I've wasted because of you.
Whether traveling to see you,
Or racking up the phone bills,
Losing sleep.
You cannot know—
I've never done the accounting,
So I don't even know myself.
And I don't want to know.)

But as I was saying,
Or attempting to. . .
Because I'm either broke or cheap,
Perhaps I can fall back on that old device,
Used by children and artists,
Of making a present.
But what?

I'm too far away to perform some task,
An errand, some investment of time.
Just as well,
I have no more time than money,
Perhaps even less.

I would compose some music,
Something perhaps you could perform.
No, it has been too long,
I've lost what little skill I had.
Besides,
It would probably be too weird for your taste.

I am not skilled at the visual arts
But you are, and I would not presume to compete.
Nor do I have the craft to create some object
That would be anything other than laughable.

Indeed, it seems that I lack in skill of any kind
As much as I lack in cash.
So many things I would do in my life,
So many fields interest me,
So many ways I wish I could contribute to society. . .
Alas,
Whatever I touch seems to suffer at my ineptitude.

There I go again. . .
I can't even think about a present for a friend
Without lapsing into self-pity.
Well,
My life has come to this:
I have nothing other than words.
No, I claim no skill to speak—
I cannot keep track of what I have to say,
Or I do not have the courage to say what I should.
Instead, all I know to do any more is write.
With pen and ink (or, more likely, keyboard),
I have the chance to edit, to polish,
To annoy myself to madness!
But to create something.
I can't seem to write anything very long—
I'm no good at developing a story,
Too lazy to do research—
So I take refuge in the cheap and easy poem.
In other words,
I'm not sure I'm any better at writing than at anything else,
But it's what I have.

So, such as I have, I give you. . .
A few words,
Nonsense, perhaps—
Not even in time for your birthday,
See,
I can't get anything right.
But such as I have, I give you. . .
A rambling poem
For an old friend.

Ah! No!
Behold what an incompetent I am!
Perhaps I would be better off,
No doubt you would be, too,
If I did not even try.

I did not mean to use the word "old"
In connection with a birthday gift.
Please,
Let me edit that.

Such as I have, I give you. . .
An unworthy poem
For my friend.

Cold Memory Portraits Parallel Paths