To A Coal Bin

O thou gaunt and gaping space of black,

     Where lies the useless shovel on the floor;

     I’ve tried to fill thy chasm o’er and o’er,

But woe is me, ‘tis all in vain, alack!

I have neither the price, the strength nor knack.

     To feed thy hungry mouth I’ve labored hard

     And long; worked overtime, wrote by the yard,

And seldom has a manuscript come back.

Coal bin, or has been, thou couldst well be writ,

     Thou art too great a drain upon my purse;

     Methinks that I should have to quit the verse

And drive a team or go to farming it,

     And if perchance I never rise to fame

     Coal bin, thy appetite were all to blame.

Dec. 18, ‘04