I wanted to be Steve Jobs
I wanted to be Joni Mitchell
I wanted to be Leonard Cohen
I wanted to be Carl Sagan,
Bobby Kennedy.
I wanted to be that person, they’ll say,
“yeah, whatever happened to him?”
The way people do, about certain
Rare, shining talents, like Joni, or Steve,
Or Carl.
Mysteries that can’t be explained.

But that’s not happening.
I’m too late.
I missed the turn,
the note slipped under my door,
Or didn’t have the guts, so, now,
I’m sitting in traffic on a Friday afternoon,
Listening to early Joni,
bleeding on the knife edge of her words,
knowing what she had,
what Leonhard had,
knowing that sort of gift
did not drop down my chimney,
or plop into my oatmeal.
The light turns green and I
Turn right, with the others,
for home.

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