He spent years alone

working on his craft

eating cheesy bread in bed

He sagged into his mattress

like a sack of potatoes

His words weren’t read

but he had a following

of literary friends

who told him, he had talent.

In the meantime, he worked at a school

where he got angry phone calls from feminists

because of mistakes he had made

on his paperwork.

One day, he decided to lose the weight

and get laid (he was tired of being alone)

Literary fame was never going to happen.

That was his original,

get-laid-quick-scheme

where

40-year-old women would line up

in flower dresses

and get his autograph.

He would give them his phone number, instead.

The reality was, his cheesy bread was molding

He was never going to get his big break

and then it happened

at 50.

He broke his neck falling down some stairs

and got placed in a full body cast.

Then he wrote the Great American Novel about slavery and freedom

while his friends climbed corporate ladders

and looked down on him

from the top.

He was floating,

in his own hot weather balloon

up

up

and away

passing bland buildings

in the summer heat.

There would be no more angry phone calls

only sweet female

honey sounding voices, asking

“Where do you live?”

And he would tell them that he was only available from noon until three

on Saturdays.

He had to work them in

at the same time, so he could get his writing done.