Going over words on paper

or the computer

for the thousandth time,

revision or new vision,

which shall it be?

I am a storyteller, the genre

as important as the tales

I tell, the shape of the words

as vital as the feelings

they elicit.

Gathering together words

to make a collection,

my husband says, “Why

not write fiction, at least

that sells.”

I am a poet, the words

carefully chosen, not

some hash hastily thrown

together nor a formula

carefully followed

so that only the names

change, but every

scene remains the same,

and every conclusion

a ready resolution.

I am a storyteller, a poet,

and life is shrunk to exist

on twenty pound paper

between soft covers held together

by the glue of passion and observation.