Maine Poem, #3

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When I was young and starting out

I sometimes dreamed writing would bring me

     fame and fortune (not necessarily in that order),

and that when my labors at last were over

I would rest in the company of immortals.

 

I struggled at first to pay the bills, find my voice;

at times it seemed like the way was always and

     only uphill.

I persevered, the work became its own reward,

     people began to notice.

Eventually, fame, if not fortune, were mine,

     the dream of my youth a reality.

 

Now here I lie, spine up, in a box on a library-sale table, 

     back to front with other immortals.

People pause, nod, move along, my name, my fame,

     a dimming star in a forever expanding universe.