An empty vessel
The artist paints her mind on her canvas,
The poet expresses his on a blank page,
The executive in his pursuit of ambition,
The mother in the feeding of her child,
The philosopher in his idle indulgence,
The singer in his striving for tonal perfection.
I don’t paint, write, work, play, think or sing,
But sitting on my beanbag at home, watch
Her actions, read and listen to their stories
On TV, TED, the pages of a novel, a magazine
And feel smarter without quite knowing why,
When in a fit of genius I arrive unexpectedly
At the wretched truth of my utter imperfection,
Conjecture, I hear my mind say. Hence proved.