I must confess sometimes I fantasize the world will fall in love with my brain

So we’re in agreement:  

An MBA makes the most sense—  

For me, for now.  

A practical, a smart choice.  

But inside, I’m daydreaming  

Of poetry classes,  

Of a professor who recognizes  

My raw artistry—  

The 21st-century Emily Dickinson,  

Voice of a generation.

Blah. Blah. Blah.

Color in grandeur.

I’m whisked away to publishers,  

Then podcasts, then late-night shows.  

Critics would be horrified  

By my interviews—  

Sipping a pint of cow's milk 

Or sweet tea,  

Shooting a BB gun at the opossum  

Raiding my garden.  

      "It only hurts them. 

       Doesn't break the skin.

       But he'll remember me."
How Hunter S. Thompson!

But fans would be enamored— 

My feral cat rescues,

My antics,

And the part-time job  

At Home Depot

Even though I have

A cult following.

The biggest fans

Have adopted a cat

And bought a hammer

I happily sign

If bought from me—

The closest they will get

To owning a piece of me.

How Hemingway!

Someday,  

I’d die, yet still be  

Some freshman's favorite poet— 

They're in the hipster college phase.

But then I remember:  

If I could’ve, I would’ve  

By now. Afterall,  I set goals  

And reach them. Did you know  

I’m getting an MBA?  

It just makes sense—  

For me, for now.  

A practical, smart choice.