Margaret Fishback

When life seems gray
And short of fizz
It seems that way
Because it is.

This is a day when I covered no ground.
Just pushed and shuffled my papers around,
Nudged at letters and winced at bills,
Sorting them out into different hills,
Hunted fretfully for a ruler,
Worried the overworked water cooler,
Sharpened pencils and filled my pen,
Then shuffled my papers around again.

The Twenty-fifth is imminent
And every known expedient
Designed for making Christmas pay
Is getting swiftly under way.
Observe the people swarming to
And fro, somnambulating through
The stores in search of ties and shirts
And gloves to give until it hurts.

When in the dumps, I hate the things
That ordinarily I love.
I loathe the lark that blindly sings;
I hate the bland, blue sky above.

The crocus, sneering on the lawn,
Forsythia about to bloom—
I'd like to see them dead and gone,
Instead of filling life with gloom.

Unfortunately happiness
Depends a little more than less
On undependable, and hence
Absurdly charming elements.

Sometimes I wish that I were dead
As dead can be, but then again
At times when I've been nicely fed
On caviar or guinea hen
And I am wearing something new
And reassuring, I decide
It might be better to eschew
My tendency to cyanide.

Bear in mind, my little man:
Never let your verses scan.
And acceptance will be sparse
If, by any chance, they parse.
But whatever else you do,
Let it not be said of you
That your poetry makes sense!. . . .
That’s a criminal offense!

The problems of a working girl
Are more than meet the naked eye;
And life becomes a dizzy whirl
At times—and dizzy, too, am I.

I have not found the answer yet,
And this is just a working plan:
I shove along and do not fret,
Nor yet depend on any man.

I wish my frank and open face
Held just one tiny little trace
Of something that approaches guile.
I'd like an enigmatic smile
And heavy-lidded eyes instead
Of just a regulation head.