WORKING MAN POET
The call of the pen,
Made me the man,
I wrote to be.
My working hours,
And my daily week,
Same, day by day.
My rested evenings,
And my fertile thoughts,
Pen in hand.
Come the weekend,
That freed the pen,
That poem was born.
From frustration of life,
The battles fought,
The bitter man’s sigh.
Lost again to the morning,
Of another working day,
The ritual earnings.
Through the day,
This poetry lounging,
Inside my head.
It lives inside,
The pen writes,
The birth of this poem.
by Robin McNamara © 2018
Robin McNamara Poet 