Found this poem on the web and thought I would share it. I was reading some old posts and realized (even though I promised my many readers -she said, sarcastically-to post at least once a week) that I was posting less and less so that once a year seemed like a lot. It is a curse, not of pretentiousness really, but more of perfectionism that I don't write more.
Thoughts While Driving Home
Was I clever enough?
Was I charming?
Did I make at least one good pun?
Was I disconcerting? Disarming?
Was I wise? Was I wan? Was I fun?
Did I answer that girl with white shoulders
Correctly, or should I have said
(Engagingly), "Kierkegaard smolders,
But Eliot's ashes are dead"?
And did I, while being a smarty,
Yet some wry reserve slyly keep,
So they murmured, when I'd left the party,
"He's deep. He's deep. He's deep"?
John Updike
